Untouchable Face
by Amalin
Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? Lockhart and angst, what a combination.
1. I Dreamed A Dream

Title: Untouchable Face (Prologue) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: Amalin32@aol.com 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The lyrics from "Funny How It Fades Away" belong to Fastball. Also, the title "Untouchable Face" was inspired by the Ani DiFranco song entitled "Untouchable Face," and "I Dreamed A Dream" comes from Les Miserables. 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What happens then?   
  
  


p r o l o g u e -- i d r e a m e d a d r e a m 

_"...you won't see those pale grays returning to blues_   
_the colors will wash out as i shrink in my shoes_   
_and i won't always live and breathe_   
_watch me as i fade away..."_

  


Amber threads lace across the milky blue sky, streaking like tawny comets across a curtain of faded ink, bleeding over pale parchment to herald the coming rosy-tinged day. Dawn's tentative fingers pluck gently at the horizon. 

The lacy wisps of cotton are alight with sherbet pink, clustering just above the tree line like a whipped cream topping to some delectable dessert. Only faint birdsong streams across the summer morning, leaving most dreamers to their respective dreams and intruding only faintly on the edge of one's consciousness. True to its nature, the summer morning is left lazy and slumbering, slowly creeping onward into a more natural waking time. 

Fluttering gently at the heavy panes of glass, the flimsy curtains flap in the tenuous breeze. Through their thin weave seeps the early light, shining faint and pale into the shadowy interior. 

A bed. The covers are tousled, the quilt rumpled with complicated hills and valleys that seem a topographer's worst nightmare. It has slipped halfway from the sleeper, trailing on the carpet. The sheets are crumpled and populated with shadows that dance their languid way over the creamy fabric. It seems the evidence of either a very active night prior or the work of insomnia, tormenting the sleepless guest into tossing and turning for hours. 

Let us forget about aforementioned guest for a moment, travelling instead to the other furnishings. A full-length mirror stands arrogantly in the corner, its ornate silver plating seeming to sneer disdainfully at the other merely wooden furniture. The walls themselves are unadorned, save for one picture that remains nearly the same as the mirror's usual image, as it reflects the sleeper down to the last detail. A name is scribbled in the corner, though in such dim light it remains illegible. 

A suitcase is placed neatly by the door, bulging with clothes far beyond its capacity to carry. Beside it is a travelling bag; atop it a book is balanced precariously, the winsome smiling face on the cover appearing oddly in the shadows, the impossibly dazzling smile more like a snarl in the blue-tinged light. 

And now. The corresponding lips of the actual sleeper are neither twisted in a snarl nor spread in a dazzling smile. The shadows that cluster about them outline the briefest of frowns, as if the man is unwillingly entertaining a none-so-pleasant dream. On occasion his eyelids will twitch - a futile gesture towards waking. Even in the dim light, the feverish glow in his cheeks is obvious. He has not slept well; besides the disrupted state of his blankets, his arm is flung across the bed as though it once was raised in fending off an unseen attacker. 

The hand which caps this arm - left, it happens to be - is curled like a child's, manicured nails hovering over the palm with its lack of calluses. A bit of rusty crimson is dried beneath one nail, as if having been forgotten in hurried events. A network of veins can be seen lacing across the icy pale sheen of skin, thinly veiled like the dark water lurking beneath sheets of ice on the lake. One could trace the pattern like a pre-drawn dot-to-dot game, wondering how life could hover so close to the surface, blue-purple and faint in the dawn's eerily blue light. 

His eyelids flutter. He does not wake. 

A faint sheen of sweat hovers over his forehead, slicking the backs of his knees and the nape of his neck. Tousled milky gold locks slip carelessly over the damp surface above his eyes, the curls limp and the usually gleaming color faded in the morning light. There is something vulnerable about the set of his mouth, the way his forehead is gently wrinkled, even in sleep. Something endearing - like a little boy who has never quite grown up. 

But he is not dreaming pleasant little boy dreams - of Quidditch, small triumphs, idle daydreams, Chocolate Frogs. He is not recalling happy childhood memories of catching phosphorescent fish in the shallows of the lake, drinking his first butterbeer, having his first kiss. There will be no nostalgic smile at a triumphant chess game, a cherished book, a best friend. 

His eyelids flutter more urgently, a frown creasing his face in lines that special creams are supposed to permanently prevent. They open; baby blue orbs wide and panicked in the shadows. 

A scream pierces the darkness.   
  
  
  


-=-=-=- 

  
  
  


As our awakened sleeper conscientiously applies anti-wrinkle cream to his face, his portrait sidles back and forth impatiently. Still feeling woozy from Madam Pomfrey's attentions the night before, recalling drinking glass after glass of potion to restore his memory, he sighs at his reflection as he tries valiantly to escape the flood of memory. It had been restored, all right; his thoughts had swung immediately from _I say, you don't look half bad, old boy - whoever you are!_ to _Oh - you again_. 

And then Madam Pomfrey had clasped her hand over his mouth to stifle the screaming. It did nothing to halt the flow of returning memories. 

Outside the window a bird offers a warbling song, vying with the birds flitting about the edges of the Forbidden Forest for a listener. The former Hogwarts professor is oblivious to the lilting tune. He does not, however, miss the audible click of a door swinging open. 

"Oh, hullo," he manages amiably to the scowling face peering in at him. Inside, his innards feel picked over by scavenger birds, but what else is new? "Is someone looking for me?" 

Severus Snape smiles, not exactly without malice. "Not at all, no. I was simply concerned. I heard you scream earlier and wondered if something was amiss?" One eyebrow raises delicately. "Found a Boggart beneath your bed, perhaps, or some equally _frightening_ monster?" 

Not about to admit to another nightmare or even the tumultuous emotions aroused at the sudden appearance of his former colleague and fellow student, Lockhart waves a hand carelessly. "Ah…yes, of course! A Boggart - how did you know? Startled me, that's all. Taken care of in a jiffy." 

"Glad to hear it." Snape's lips curve in a mirthless smile as he withdraws. "It's a shame we're losing such an _adept_ Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Shame to see you go, but Dumbledore told us all of your 'resignation' last night." 

"Er, ha ha," Lockhart says, equally lacking in amusement, though he - unlike Snape - tries valiantly to arouse some semblance. "Adventuring calls, you know." 

"Well, do send around your latest book when it comes out," Snape drawls. "Goodbye, Gilderoy." 

The door shuts. The mirror seems to mock its gazer with a distorted reflection and he turns away, shaking his head. There is no smugness in his smile, though he must admit he has never seen anyone with a more dazzling smile. After all, Witches Weekly wouldn't have picked him otherwise. Not for five consecutive years. 

"Where to now, old boy?" he wonders to the portrait. His own image winks rakishly back at him and he shakes his head, feeling weary despite the early hour. Let us speculate that he did not sleep well - the dark circles shadowing his eyes certainly provide enough evidence. "London? Dublin? My, we certainly have admirers everywhere, don't we?" He seems ruefully amused. "From more than one life." 

As he bends to retrieve his luggage, a newspaper clipping slides forlornly to the polished wooden floor. He picks it up, watching the eleven-year-old boy glance nervously from side to side as if traitors and enemies surround him on all sides. _Harry Potter_, the Daily Prophet proclaims, _may very well be the rising hope of this magical world_. If we traveled back several years, we might discover a similar article - hidden at the back of the newspaper, a tiny column next to a small boy's picture. _Gilderoy Lockhart_, that article might lament, _the last surviving member of the Lockhart family._

And the shadowed green of the trees fluttering outside the window exactly matches the faint and ghostly Dark Mark that would hover behind the small boy in the picture. 

"I was wrong about you, Harry," he sighs, looking sadly at the article before crumpling it in his hands and tossing it - he misses - to the wastebasket in the corner. "Poor boy. For a hero, you're decidedly naïve." But then, being wrong was nothing new. He had been terribly wrong, after all, about himself. 

As if on cue, two gleaming eyes peer in the door and a house elf scampers in to help him with his luggage. A carriage is waiting outside of Hogwarts, ready to discreetly carry him away to the station. 

The sky is a faded baby blue as the carriage jolts away; Lockhart's nose is pressed against the window as he watches the towering building recede. There are few fond memories from Hogwarts - never mind if he was professor or student, neither seemed to result in happy circumstances. A white line trails across the blue jean canvas, perhaps a plane weaving its way unobstructed through the sky. The sun has just risen, spreading vague warmth across the sky and gilding each leaf and waving blade of grass with lines of antique gold. 

"Do you know," Lockhart says to the driver, finding ironic comfort in the memories that before eluded him, "I found the formula for success?" 

"Do enlighten me," the driver replies, sarcasm lacing his voice. 

"It's quite simple," he lectures, finally turning away from the lightening sky. It is a winter gray, despite the summer breezes frisking through the trees. Perhaps it will tint with blue later, darken to a picturesque azure. "Image. It's everything." 

Without turning, the driver raises an eyebrow. Had there been a rearview mirror, Lockhart might have glimpsed the expression, but there was none. "What, been poring over Muggle magazines lately? Not a new concept. Next you'll be telling me that plastic surgery is the last hope for civilization." 

"No," Lockhart disagrees. He would be accused of sounding bitter and perhaps even sardonic, did we not know him and his character so supposedly well. "Harry Potter is." 

The silence breeds unashamedly in the tiny interior, oblivious to the endless space of the sky outside. When the carriage slows, Lockhart heaves his luggage out after him without a word and does not tip the driver. He finds himself sitting alone on a bench at the station, staring expectantly if blankly towards the bend the train should round. 

When it comes and he climbs on, he does not look back.   
  


_________________________________________________________________   
Belated A/N: Much angst upcoming! I have about eight full chapters planned, with a finishing epilogue. Lockhart intrigues me and I hope to do him justice; he's more than a pompous coward, I assure you! You'll come to love - or at least tolerate - him the way I do, I hope. Anyway, this mere beginning was but a glimpse; plenty of angst-ridden chapters coming soon. Mm. Angst is good. 


	2. In Days Gone By

  
Title: Untouchable Face (In Days Gone By) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: Amalin32@aol.com 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The song "I Dreamed A Dream" belongs to _Les Miserables_, producers, writers, etc. 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What then?   


  


c h a p t e r o n e -- i n d a y s g o n e b y 

_"...I dreamed a dream in days gone by_   
_when hopes were high and life worth living_   
_I dreamed that love would never die_   
_I dreamed that God would be forgiving..."_

  


They say that first impressions are lasting. For most, that is probably true, though the first glimpse Gil caught of Hogwarts was most misleading. Never one to worry unduly, he felt excitement rather than fear. Perhaps he should have been more wary. In any case, the lofty towers and rolling grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry induced a happiness that had been tickling the edges of his consciousness ever since he stepped onto the bustling Platform Nine and Three Quarters. He felt optimistic, nearly euphoric - he had been waiting for this moment all of his life. His _parents_ had been waiting for this moment all of their lives, too. The next seven years, Gil was sure, would be the greatest of his life. 

He couldn't have been more wrong. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else. The girl standing beside him looked at him curiously, though she nodded. How could the eleven year old boy, callow and naive, possibly know the pain and torment awaiting him within those resolute walls? How could he surmise at the childish tears waiting to be shed, how could he push his mind to accept how he would come to hate this magical haven? 

For now, he could only stare at the towering castle with its ancient, welcoming stone architecture, and grin. He loved it already, feeling some strange affinity with the close to living, breathing building. As they tramped across the grounds to enter Hogwarts, he glanced about with awe dancing in the blue flame of his eyes. That was the hottest part of the fire: the jet of startling sapphire that danced through the auburn blaze. And indeed, the fervor in his eyes was matched fully by few others. 

"Thank you, Hagrid," Professor McGonogall said warmly, though the gaze trained on the incoming first-years was a bit harsher. "Welcome to Hogwarts. In a few minutes you'll be in the Great Hall, where you'll go through the Sorting process." 

Her words blurred, as did the faces of his classmates to be, and Gil saw the halls of Hogwarts for the first time in a haze of dreamy expectation. He did not concentrate on the features of his companions or the words that flowed over him, did not stop gazing about even when silence pervaded in the small chamber they waited in. The Great Hall was a new wonder; he had heard about Hogwarts, of course, but never truly experienced it. And an experience it was - sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. Emotion. Weaving a tapestry too rich to dissect, an exhilaration that swept him up in its overwhelming tide. Hogwarts wasn't just a place. It was an experience. 

And all too suddenly, his own name was in his ears, and snickers followed him all the way up to the stool. "Is he a _boy_?" someone whispered incredulously from the Ravenclaw table. "But I thought-" 

The darkness of the Sorting Hat slipping over his eyes was a welcome comfort from the laughter. The voice sounded, almost amused, in his mind. "My, my, we have high hopes for the future, don't we?" He just wanted to make them proud, make them love him the way they loved each other. He just wanted to be someone. He wanted Hogwarts to be his as much as he was already under its spell, wanted to be - "Ambition," the Sorting Hat mused. "Who will you be, Gilderoy?" 

And, with the word Slytherin ringing in his ears, little Gilderoy Lockhart slunk to the company of his new House. 

The glory of Hogwarts to the eye was one thing, but its taste was another matter entirely. His parents, both prominent in the wizarding world, had an abundance of wondrous food. But eating at Hogwarts added something else. 

"_What's_ your name, again?" The boy next to him, shrimpy and dark haired, had paused in the middle of his pasty to stare at Gil. Two third year boys further down in the table ceased their conversation as well, clearly on the verge of laughter. 

"My name," he said slowly, "is Gil." 

"I'm Toby-" the boy began, when another voice intervened. 

"Are you sure? Because I'm pretty sure I heard that your name was Gilderoy Lockhart." The derisive twist in the voice on his name did not escape Gil's notice. "A name like that, I don't forget." A hand swooped over Gil's shoulder and snatched a bit of his dinner as its owner munched appreciatively. "You like toffee, don't you, _Gilderoy_?" 

Gil and Toby both stared up at their sudden companion. He was slim, as most eleven year olds are, though a hardness in his eyes added something menacing in his smile that most eleven year olds _don't_ possess. "Patrick," he introduced himself calmly, ignoring Toby's proffered hand and sneering at Gil. "Nothing odd about _that_, is there?" 

"What're you doing, Patrick, stirrin' up trouble already?" The speaker was tall and well built, though similar to Patrick in appearance. Arms crossed, he looked amused. "I'm a prefect this year, little brother, and I won't tolerate any of your nonsense." 

Patrick did not seem to view this as a threat; apparently, the prefect was not as serious as he would have liked to be taken as. "Whatever, Rat," he tossed back flippantly. Seeing the frown lines wrinkle over his brother's forehead, Patrick smirked. "I mean, Robert." 

"I thought it was the last name that counted, Patrick?" A pale-haired girl interrupted them in a mocking voice, raising one delicately shaped eyebrow at the cluster of boys. 

He clapped Gil roughly on the shoulder, causing the boy to wince at the heavy-handed, though seemingly friendly, gesture. "Our boy Gilderoy here knows better. Lockhart isn't a name that goes very far back, is it, now?" 

"Lockhart?" The girl frowned, tossing her white-blonde hair over her shoulder. "My mum went to school with your father, I think." Her frown turned even more sour. "He was a _Gryffindor_." 

"Well, well." Patrick smirked down at Gil, his dark sneer suddenly more intimidating. "Moved up, have you? You'll have to prove yourself, I think. Show us you're not really one of them goody goody Gryffindors after all." Before Gil could even think of an answer, he'd swept away. The girl followed, somehow managing to chatter away with her nose held haughtily in the air. Toby gave one quick glance at Gil, then back to his plate. 

"Wh-" 

"I'm Robert," a sudden voice said behind Gil, and he jerked around. Patrick's brother stood there, hand extended. He shook it tentatively. "Robert Kearny, and if you call me Rat - it's a childhood nickname - I'll kill you." Gil could not be sure if he was serious or not. He was beginning to think that Slytherin was perhaps not such a pleasant place. "If Patrick gives you any trouble, just let me know. I'm supposed to look after him, anyways." 

"I - all right." 

"And come to the Quidditch tryouts, will you? You won't get on the team; only Patrick's arrogant enough to think he will. No first years do. But you've got the right build, by third year I bet we'll have you stealing the Snitch from under the Gryffindor's noses!" Grinning suddenly, he sauntered off. "Welcome to Hogwarts." 

Welcome to Hogwarts, indeed. Though Gil lifted his fork and took another bite, the food could have been sawdust and he would not have noticed. When the students left for their respective towers, he could do little but stagger after Toby and clamber into his four-poster, limbs heavy with the fatigue of a long, long day. 

"Goodnight, _Gilderoy_." 

Patrick's mocking voice was the last thing he heard before the dreams took him.   


-=-=-=- 

  


It was nearly a month later when the owl came, dropping a scrap of parchment onto the disenchanted Gil's untouched plate. Too short to be a letter from his parents, he scowled at it, almost sure of the source. Indeed, the scrawling cursive in smudged ink was all too familiar - sitting next to Patrick in Potions, an unwanted circumstance, was beginning to influence him. _Come to the lake at midnight if you want to prove yourself._

And that was all. No names, no further directions - but then, he didn't need them, did he? He knew who it was from, all right, and the rest was painfully simple. Too simple. 

The sausages and toast were beginning to look decidedly unappetizing. He pushed away his plate, feeling ill. A month at Hogwarts had been plenty of time for him to both become acquainted with his school and its inhabitants. His coursework, too, gave him enough to be disappointed about. No rose-tinted glass obscured those blue flame eyes. 

Curling the parchment almost carefully, he slid it into his pocket beside his wand. What was he to do? Would going truly remedy anything, after all, or just endanger him? He was already known to be a coward, from the three times Patrick had beaten him up. 

Remembering, Gil touched a tentative finger to his eye. Madam Turrey's poultice had done wonders; then again, it always did. After a month, she knew him by name, and it was no surprise to her intern - Poppy Pomfrey - when Gil came strolling in. 

"Hey, Gil." 

Robert was one of the few that remembered to call him Gil, though he remained mostly indifferent to the first year boy's plight. For an instant Gil considered telling Robert about the note, but he pushed the notion away. Patrick would just beat him up later on, several times over. 

But then, Patrick would do that, anyway. 

It would always be a mystery, then, why Gil found himself tip-toeing out of the school that night, shivering in October's chill. He was disillusioned enough to call it something other than courage; everyone knew Gil had none, and courage wouldn't have driven him to the lake, only foolish pride. While he half expected to find the shore abandoned, several black-robed students were clustered, shivering just as he was. 

"Oi, look!" One pointed. "He came!" 

They pulled him forward, sat him down eagerly on a log. Patrick's leering face loomed from the shadows of his hood and he patted Gil - hard enough to nearly shove him off the log - on the shoulder. "Nice going, Gil," he grinned, even consenting to call the boy Gil. He handed Gil a butterbeer, winking. "You drink - oh, say, six of these? Then you jump in the lake off that big boulder. That's all. Simple, huh?" 

Gil eyed it. He swam often when he was younger, but he hadn't for several years at least. And the October air was freezing, not to mention the water. But what choice did he have, now that he was here? 

"Drink up." Someone presented him with an already opened bottle and he took a wary sip. The buttery warmth slid down his throat, providing him with some measure of warmth, if not courage. Within minutes the group of five boys had settled around him, watching him. 

"Can you believe Abbi wanted to come?" One of the boys rolled his eyes. 

"Well, why'd you tell her?" Patrick snapped back. The insant Gil finished a bottle, another was thrust into his hand. By the fourth, he was feeling decidedly woozy. 

"I thought...these...didn't have much...alcohol?" His teeth were chattering, as were the teeth of several of the others. One boy's fingers were turning blue. The taste was beginning to taint his mouth, its buttery flavor making him want to gag. 

"They don't." For the first time, the shortest boy spoke up solemnly, and Gil was startled to find that it was Toby. The surprise penetrated the alcoholic fog, and he frowned. 

"T-Toby? What're you d-doing here?" 

Patrick answered for him. "Toby here is a true Slytherin," he grinned, slapping the short boy on the back with one of his notoriously hard blows. "He knows the way life goes. If it wasn't you, it'd be him. So he's got to hang on to what little edge he's got, eh?" 

Fifth one... Gil swayed a bit on his log. 

"Survival of the fittest," one of the boys commented, casually drinking a leftover butterbeer to keep warm. "My father used to read that to me all the time. I mean, proving how Truebloods are clearly better than _Muggle born._" 

"You're telling me _you_ count as one of the 'fittest?'" Patrick snorted with laughter. "Hurry it up, Gil, I'm cold." 

Hands shaking, finding the taste more than repulsive by this time, Gil avoided looking at the inky surface of the lake. It swirled restlessly, waiting for him, waiting to swallow him up. One of the boys grabbed his hand, tipping the contents of the bottle down his throat, and threw it down. They grasped him by the arms, heaving him forward. 

"I - I don't think-" The world swam before his eyes, tipsy. Soured sunshine coated Gil's mouth. 

Grasping at the folds of his robes, pushing him upwards, the other boys crowded around him and the large boulder. He knew he was only a few feet above the water, but he was already feeling woozy and was sure he would fall if they let go. The murky depths below were dizzying, waiting to capture him. 

And then it was all around him, and the world faded to black.   


-=-=-=- 

  


Gil coughed weakly. His mouth still tasted repulsively of butterbeer and dirty water. He shivered, feeling the wind shudder over his wet robes and knowing he was outside before he even opened his eyes. 

"Prob'ly the bravest thing you'll ever do, and you were drunk," a voice commented dryly. The darkness eventually resolved itself into blurry shapes and Gil blinked the water from his eyes. The picture that swam before his eyes was so unbelievable that he rubbed his eyes again. 

"Ugh...P-Patrick?" 

The bully was sitting on the log, arms crossed, tapping his wand impatiently against his leg. "Lucky I'm not a Squib like you or you'd still be floating out there," he smirked. "Yeah, you're welcome, forget about it." He stood up, yawning exaggeratedly, and swaggered up the path away from the lake. 

"W-wait..." 

Patrick turned back impatiently. "There was vodka in the butterbeer, idiot. Funny, wasn't it?" 

"N-not really." The world was still blurred into a watercolor haze, droplets hovering on his lashes. The October air was biting on his skin, drawing goosebumps and making his teeth chatter in a stuttering beat. "P-Patrick? Why did you s-s-save me?" Stars spun dizzily overhead, a patterned wheel of diamond-studded sky. "You h-h-h-" 

"Hate, Gildy, the word is _hate_." Shrugging, the taller boy snorted. "Which, yes, hasn't changed. You were hoping to be given a break because you got pushed off a little rock?"  
  
"I c-could've d-dr-drowned..." 

"Really." His tone was sarcastic. "I didn't notice. And as much fun as it is talking to your pathetic, sniveling little form, I think I prefer the warmth of my bed, _so_ - 'night now, Gilderoy. Or is it morning?" 

No pale light tinged the sky cover pink, though it was certainly far closer to dawn than it was to dusk. Gil could only stare from where his head rested wearily in the sand as the bully trudged up the gently sloping hill, his figure swiftly vanishing into the shadows that cloaked Hogwarts. It was only then that he finally pulled himself forward, tripping over his knees and half-crawling, half-staggering up the shore. His robes clung icily to his legs, and he could hear his teeth chattering in his mind like some sort of forboding death chant. He was barely conscious of the long journey from that cold sand bed to his own dormitory four-poster, though when he finally collapsed beneath its blankets he found Patrick sleeping peacefully. 

Blankets clutched to his chin, eyes wide in the darkness, Gil curled up around his shivering body. Unable to relax enough to slip into the heavy comfort of slumber, he surveyed the room. Had they any idea? No, probably not. Had they watched him flounder in the water, panicked, screaming silently and emitting only bubbles, while they laughed and joked with one other? Had Patrick leapt in after him, or had he too laughed, waiting until the rest staggered back to the dormitory before dragging Gil's unconscious form to the shore? 

Gil shuddered. He could still be there, floating face down, eyes staring blankly into the dark depths below. Maybe a giant squid would surface to grab him, wrapping him in great strangling tentacles and dragging him - 

No. He couldn't think that way, couldn't indulge such horrific imagination. He was alive. 

His hair was forming a halo of water on his pillow, a seeping stain across the linen. His fingers were still shaking, his lips still blue. He replayed the night in his head, cringing at the idiocy he had submitted to. How could he have deluded himself? Patrick had said as much, nearly, teasing Toby - Toby knew, knew what it was to be the underdog. He knew what it was to be teased, to be laughed at; he knew how to beat it. By finding another to take his place. 

Gil's pillow stayed damp long after his hair dried, his cheeks warmed by the rivulets of stinging tears that trickled from his face. He was glad, at least, that the rest were asleep; no one had heard him cry in the night, or they would have said something already. It had been a big enough deal when he tried to light his wand, showing off to the other boys - _Lumos_, he had commanded, and the wand had stayed dark. Tears had stung his eyelids then, but he had refused to let them fall. Did it matter? Still they teased him. _I knew you looked like a girl, Gildy, but I never knew you cried like one.___

Hogwarts was supposed to be glorious, seven years of fun and laughter. Hadn't his mother always said so? Hadn't she always told him how he would love it, how he would enjoy it the way she had? Didn't his father clap him proudly on the shoulder, wishing him well and giving his praise? Hadn't they both hugged him goodbye, faces beaming with the knowledge their son would be happy at such a prestigious school? 

So, again, failure stung him. Only October, and he could not bear to write home. Four owls had come, each week, cheerily inquiring at his well being. _Probably too busy to write to your old mum,_ she had teased. _When you get a chance, write back, won't you, Gil? I want to hear all about it._

But no, she didn't. She wanted to hear about the triumphant scores of a Prefect-to-be, the escapades of a mischievous, well-liked boy with many friends, the ludicrous stories about pranks that were played and narrowly avoided detentions. She wanted to live vicariously through her child, or at least relive her own memorable days. 

Neither his mother or his father could relate to such...failure. _Your father's the greatest Auror in our age,_ one friend of the family had joked over dinner to a younger Gil, chuckling. _Bet you'll be just like him. Won't that be something? Old Roger's ambition, Penelope's skill - he's got his work cut out for him, doesn't he? He'll do just fine at Hogwarts.___

He wasn't doing just fine, and he certainly wasn't feeling it. Teary-eyed, shivering, miserable in the cold comfort of unwanted failure, Gil stared into the lightening sky. Though weary and overcome, sleepless and shaking, wanting nothing more than a good night's sleep where he could temporarily forget - for Gil, morning could not come soon enough.   


  


-=-=-=-   


  


His tree was stately and vast, its verdant foliage spread over his head like a canopy, its weathered bark a stability against his back, its leaves glossy and stretching far larger than the span of his hands. The branches rustled far overhead in the breeze, a gentle swaying. It was a comfort to Gil to watch the sun streak between the leaves like a fugitive flash, dappled light shifting on the packed dirt and network of knobbly roots. It was far enough from the lake that no splashing water disturbed its solitude, and - reclining in the embrace of its trunk, dreaming of the glory of towering towards the sky, reaching limbs shivering with the movement of the wind and warming to the aureate of the sunny afternoon light - Gil found it hard to feel anything but peace. 

Even so, the water lapped at the shoreline only feet away, mocking him with its clarity and complacency. No danger, no swallowing, engulfing blackness... 

"Whattsa matter, Gil? Too good to swim with us? Afraid of the big bad lake monsters?" Patrick's knowing smirk greeted him when the words called his attention and Gil looked away, cheeks burning. 

"Maybe he's afraid for us to find out that he's really a _girl_," a second-year friend of Patrick's yelled. 

"Don't listen to them, Gil." He glanced up, startled, to the tall red-headed girl leaning against his tree. She gave him a friendly grin - Lily Evans, the only one who never failed to have a smile or a hello, even for little first-year Gilderoy Lockhart. He was even more embarrassed to find that his cheeks were still flaming. "Guys can be asses, huh?" 

"Um." He looked into his lap, trying not to stare at the way the sun shimmered on her hair or the way her eyes sparkled good naturedly at him. 

Settling down beside him, elbows propped on a jutting root, she looked puzzled. "Why so sad? Exams are over! It's summer! You're practically a second year!" Grinning, she added, "Surely there's something to be excited about?" 

"I guess." He shrugged, catching a leaf that fluttered down slowly into his lap. The veins were lit with yellow-green light in the sun, its surface waxy and smooth. 

"Patrick?" She frowned, looking at him with - if he was reading her expression correctly - concern. Lily was the only one he had told about the butterbeer incident, and - to his surprise - she'd listened worriedly. She'd even lent him a Charmed dustrag for his detention. "Why don't you stand up to them, Gil? Why do you let them pick on you so?" 

Shrugging again, Gil looked away. "What else am I supposed to do?" 

As notable for her temper as her looks, Lily crossed her arms. "That's a stupid question." 

"I'm practically a Squib anyway," he mumbled. "All your friends are smart and good at Quidditch..." Trailing off, Gil looked down with an embarrassed flush on his face. Though practically the most popular girl in school, she always had a kind word for him. "It doesn't matter. Shouldn't you be with them now?" 

"Oh, come on, Gil. Someday you'll be a famous wizard and Patrick'll be someone's stupid henchman. Don't doubt it." 

The worst thing was, he could picture it all too well and knew it was a dream that would never come true. Who would want _his_ measly little autograph? 

And on the other hand, there was Lily Evans, the charming Muggle girl who everyone seemed to like. Almost all the younger boys had secret crushes on her, and a fair number of the older boys did as well. She was at the top of her class and amazingly nice to everyone, even little Gilderoy Lockhart who was well known only because he couldn't light his bloody wand the first time he'd tried. She was someone who was special. She was someone who would be famous. Not him, with his androgynous looks and scared habit of hiding in the broom closet when Patrick walked by; not him, with his clumsiness and utter lack of ability at - everything. 

"Did you do okay on your exams?" he asked, instead of admitting his dreams. Who was he to pretend to be someone, sitting here under his tree - since when was it _his_ tree? - beside _Lily Evans_? 

"I did all right." 

"You did more than all right," Gil insisted. Lily never did just 'all right,' as everyone knew. She only laughed. 

"And you? How was Transfiguration - I know you were nervous about the practical part?" 

He tried not to pay attention to that. Lily actually remembered what he had said? Splashing distracted him from his thoughts, and he glanced up to see Patrick and his friends showing off. He felt oddly embarrassed for Lily's sake. "Terrible," he sighed, mind shifting back to the day's earlier stressors. "Not as bad as Potions, though. You'd think he'd _like_ me, being Slytherin." 

"You know," Lily joked, "you're nearly not a Slytherin. And that's a compliment." 

Gil reddened. 

"Lily! _There_ you are!" A shout rang out from up the hill and they both turned, a guilty look flashing on Gil's face, an excited one on Lily's. The dark haired boy jogged over to them, slipping an arm about her. "We've been looking all over for you, Sirius found this-" He dropped off, glancing over at Gil as if struggling to place him, then grinned mischievously. "Hey, Jill." 

Despite his efforts, Gil blushed furiously. Barely catching Lily's farewell, he watched the two walk off, hearing a few snatches of their voices before that too faded. 

"…James…never nice…" 

"…so? …cares…he's just…" 

Gil pushed a resentful sneaker toe into the dust. He knew most people would be envious for a cherished Hogwarts education, but he wasn't sure that he was to be envied. Maybe they'd made some sort of mistake - his life seemed littered with them. A letter to Hogwarts, Sorted into Slytherin…he was a mistake. 

_Surely there's something to be excited about?_ Lily had joked. It was all right for her. Her parents were Muggles and didn't expect anything; anyway, she was smart enough to be Head Girl twice. And the way everyone loved her - even Gil had a crush on her, poor little Gilderoy whose only company was the looming tree by the lake and the occasional smile from an out-of-reach infatuation. 

She had said that he was nearly not a Slytherin. What would have happened, had he been in Gryffindor? Even Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff? _Ambition,_ the Sorting Hat had said. _Who will you be, Gilderoy?_

Would his ambition, then, damn him like the rest of his heritage? Would he be fated to lurk in the shadows of other towering trees, a mere scorned flower grasping for any line of sunlight, trying to draw some secondhand comfort from the strength and prowess of something he could not be? Maybe no one would ever take him seriously. Maybe no one would remember him when he was gone. Maybe no one would take the time to care what shifted beneath his usually teary, pale blue eyes. Maybe he never would be anything more than a silly little fool, a naive, blustering man like he'd been an inept boy. Maybe... 

Gil seemed to have an amazing ability to fail at most of his subjects; this included Divination. But this time, he was startingly close to being right.   


______________________________________________________   
Belated A/N: If you stuck with me through this chapter, I'm surprised. ~makes a face~ Sorry, necessary exposition. Also, I know that first years aren't generally exposed to Divination - a little glitch that seemed necessary. Next time in UF! Find out why Gildy hates Death Eaters, how many times Amalin can describe the sky (a lot), and who's got the hots for Gilderoy - plus angst galore! Really, it's coming. I promise. And for those who reviewed, thanks - feedback, you know, is nice. 


	3. Serendipity

.   
Title: Untouchable Face (Serendipity) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: Amalin32@aol.com 

Rating: R (Warning: Upcoming fic contains sexual content. No lemon worthy scenes, but suggestiveness, so. Beware. Most probably the reason for the series rating.) 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The lyrics belong to Sister Hazel. 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What then?   


  


c h a p t e r t w o -- s e r e n d i p i t y 

_"...it's over and i'm overwhelmed_   
_i'm emptied out like a dusty shelf_   
_you buried me - and I'm covered in shame_   
_i'm here but you look right through me..."_

  


If asked about his second and third year at Hogwarts, Gil would have been hard pressed to find an answer. When everyone else seemed to undergo a growth spurt, he stayed where he was, a slim and flimsy boy the others delighted in picking on. Even some of the first-years took up the habit. Studded with bruises and nights of sniveling tears, hiding from Patrick in the broom closet, disappointment at each and every shameful score. Yet nothing was truly outstanding in his mind until a chilly November morning during his fourth year, the dark owl fluttering like an omen over his breakfast. 

Isn't it strange that when you're having a bad day, nearly everything goes wrong? 

Fishing the bobbing letter from his cereal bowl, Gil frowned at the pearly silver script. _For Gilderoy Lockhart._ It was unrecognizable; certainly not his parents, most probably not from another Hogwarts student. Curiosity prodded at his mind, though before he could open it, a hand swooped over his shoulder and snatched it. Though he was a terrible brute, Patrick's reflexes were not for nothing - the towering fourth year was already Quidditch Captain. 

"Gildy's got a letter," he exclaimed, waving it about over his head. Gil sighed. "Oi, Landers!" The envelope flew across the breakfast table, caught by a fifth-year friend. 

He watched them tear it open dispassionately. It couldn't be something too important, could it? After all, why would he be getting a letter? And it wasn't a letter from his mum that they could all laugh over, though that had happened once. He blushed suddenly, hoping it truly wasn't from another student. Several Ravenclaw girls had decided that he was indeed cute and had taken to sending him letters from a "secret admirer." 

Seeing the stunned looks on their faces, he thought for a moment that it was one of those letters. But no, they would already be laughing, wouldn't they? 

"You're supposed to go to Dumbledore's office," Patrick said quietly, handing the letter and its ripped envelope back to its true owner. "I - that's all it says." 

The same silvery ink spiraled over the parchment: a brief message only. _Come to my office after breakfast._ The writing looked cramped, somehow urgent, uncertain. He tucked it carefully into the pocket of his robe, replaced his spoon carefully into his cereal, stood carefully from the table. There was a slow fear growing in his stomach. Would Dumbledore finally expel him, tired of the endless bad marks and his impossible inability? The other boys' stares followed him as he walked out of the Great Hall, eyes downcast. 

To his surprise, Professor McGonagall met him in the hall near Dumbledore's office, holding the door open while he entered the tower. And she was smiling - albeit a rather melancholy sort of one - at him. "Go on, Gil. The staircase will take you up. He's waiting to talk to you." 

"Th-thanks, Professor." Was she inwardly laughing? Was that sympathetic smile because he was finally leaving? As the stairs carried him to the Headmaster's office, his stomach clenched nervously. Wouldn't Patrick be happy? No more Gil. But then, there would be no one to pick on; maybe Toby, or one of the new first-years. The thought gave him little comfort. 

"Ah, Gilderoy!" He smiled at the boy's expression. "You prefer Gil, don't you? Sit down, please." 

Gil sat. His hands twisted nervously around his robe. "P-Professor, you wanted to see me? I can-" It suddenly, painfully occurred to him how disappointed his parents would be. They already spoke in hushed whispers when he came home for the holidays, discussing his marks in bitter murmuring tones and low shouts. Sometimes his father forgot to whisper, so upset he seemed. 

"Do you know," Dumbledore asked gently, "who Voldemort is?" 

He jumped at the blatant use of the name. "Y - of course I do." Gil frowned. "What does this have to do with-" 

Dumbledore held up a hand, halting the boy's protests. "Listen for a moment, Gil. Have you been knowledgeable about your father's business? A noted Auror, only last week he orchestrated the capture of an equally noted Death Eater. This was not the first time he has helped to thin Voldemort's ranks." 

"I - he mentioned it, maybe?" 

"Last night-" Dumbledore hesitated. "Last night Voldemort's followers struck back. Three families; the Gardners, an elderly couple who were formerly Aurors; the Reddingers, a just married couple whose baby was sent to their in-laws, and your parents." 

The words seemed to take an eternity to sink into his brain, layer by layer. His mouth couldn't seem to form the words. 

"They couldn't have died a braver death," he said gently. "Standing up for what they believed in, sacrificing themselves for your safety and the safety of others. We are all grateful." 

"C-can I-" His eyes were strangely dry. "Where've they been taken?" 

"The house has been burned, Gil. I'm sorry. There will be a memorial service tomorrow night, and if you would like to go, I'm sure someone would accompany you. You will be excused from your classes for as long as-" 

"I'll stay here." He could picture it already, the condescending family friends. _And how are you doing at Hogwarts? Your parents would be proud, I'm sure._ He could already feel the waves of shame. Was it possible? His father's booming laugh, his rare hugs, the stalwart set of his jaw as he ventured out to work every morning. It seemed so real. His mother's gentle smile, the way she comforted him, hiding her own disappointment to reassure his own. She would smooth his hair, promising - as always - that one day he would be proud of who he was, that she was always proud of him no matter what his marks were. She would bake his favorite meals during the holidays, she- 

Dumbledore carefully shuffled the papers on his desk as the tears dripped onto Gil's robes. He sniffled, looking up at the Headmaster. "So wh-what happens now? I don't have anywhere to s-" 

"Your aunt and uncle have offered to be your guardians until you graduate," Dumbledore said solemnly. "I'm sure a letter will be coming by owl. For now-" 

Gil did not meet his eyes. "Thanks for telling me," he said carefully. "I should be going to class now." 

"Gil." His hand was a comforting weight on the boy's shoulder, though after a moment Gil turned towards the door. "Your parents were undeniably brave, you know. They would be proud of you." 

The boy offered no answering agreement as he disappeared out the door.   


-=-=-=- 

  


Dinner was a sullen affair, Gil's day of struggling through his classes eventually culminating in the lengthy meal. It was fish, anyway, and he hated fish. 

"Er," said Toby, hovering awkwardly over his own meal. "I read about your parents in the Prophet. 'm sorry." 

"Thanks," Gil replied, the senseless show of gratitude that came naturally to such a comment. The ritual reply. 

"I know what it feels like," Toby tried again, pushing his fish listlessly over his plate. It seemed he, as well as Gil, was not overly fond of the dish. "My parents died when I was three. Grew up in an orphanage." 

"No," Gil said, "no, you don't know what it feels like." And he turned back to his unwanted fish. Could Toby empathize with the loneliness, the feeling of defeat? Could he feel the way Gil felt, yelled at for the umpteenth time in Potions - finally apathetic? Could he filter out the taunts of Patrick, could he ignore the laughter of others, and find himself faced with a sudden, disconcerting silence? Maybe he could. But he couldn't feel the hatred of the men who had taken away his parents and his only support, the Death Eaters that so many of his fellow Slytherin students aspired to be. 

When he had eaten what he could of the meal and still failed to satiate the empty hole gaping in his stomach. It twisted while he walked back to the Slytherin common room, squeezing his throat until it ached. He wouldn't cry; not here, not now. His eyes burned, dusky blue flame, but they remained dry. 

It was even raining. Not a slight sprinkle, or a steady rhythm that comforted in the night, but a rushing deluge of droplets that raced each other across the sky. The gray sky darkened slowly outside the window as he thumbed through his History of Magic textbook, reading the words but remembering none of them. Wasn't it strange how grief dulled your mind, how it slapped you in the face without warning? Stole your senses so that when you felt, it seemed secondhand and delayed? 

Someone sat down beside him. He ignored them, until a hand rested on his shoulder. "What's your name?" 

He recognized the older boy, vaguely. Lucius, he thought it was. He was a sixth year, him and the friends that lurked behind him in the shadows. "Um. Gil?" 

"Yeah? What're you reading, Gil?" 

"Nothing." He shrugged, setting the book down on the dusty windowsill. He wasn't as much reading as he was staring at the words chase each other in blurry lines across the pages. The rain streaked angrily outside, its persistent beat striking on the tower walls. Well. No sense in being hesitant. "Are you friends of Patrick's? If you're going to beat me up, just do it." 

To his surprise, Lucius laughed. "Patrick? Is he that fourth year bully? No, I'm not here to beat you up. I've just never seen you here before." 

So he was already a nobody at the age of fourteen. He looked out the window at the tearful sky. 

"I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners," he chuckled quietly, a slight derisive twist in his voice that called Gil's eyes back to his face. "I'm Lucius; Lucius Malfoy. This is Snape and that's Crabbe." The gestures indicating the former two were careless, tossed into the shadows where they waited. "They'll be _leaving_, though, won't they?" 

Gil frowned, twisting about to look up at the other boy who was loosening the collar of his robes in the stiflingly hot common room. The fire, however, was slowly dying down. "What do you want?" Gil asked frankly. No one wanted simply 'nothing,' anymore. 

"Oh, just some company." 

"You have them." Gil gestured to the two lurking behind them. 

Amusement played around the corners of Lucius' lips and he laughed quietly. "That I do," he agreed, exchanging a glance with Snape. "They aren't good for much, though." Snape stifled a snort. 

"What do you mean?" The rain was running in slow rivulets down the windowpane, steady teardrops throbbing with the pulse of the clouds. 

"All I want," Lucius said slowly, "is your cooperation. That's all." 

"I-in what?" 

He had a smell like mahogany cinnamon and summer pine; forests full of shadows and lucent, if fleeting, moon rays. His voice, when it came, was all velvet and razor blades - dangerous irresistible sin. "Lie down on the floor." 

"Wh-" He stopped as he heard the sudden snickering from the shadows; glanced out the window into the deepening marble sky. It rumbled, oblivious. 

He noticed, too late probably, that the common room was abandoned. He'd never paid much attention to the floor, but it was a dark polished wood, the grain running in twisting lines past his nose. There was a stain on the wood panels, a dark area oozing across the glossy floor. Spilt pumpkin juice, perhaps, even blood. If he concentrated on that singular stain hard enough - it rather looked like a butterfly, what an oddly cheerful thought - maybe he wouldn't feel the stares, the heavy gazes, the hands tracing a maze of lines up the back of his legs, the- 

Laughter rang discordantly in his ears, stinging, and a bit of fabric brushed impatiently over his back as the other stood up. "Crabbe, Snape, _enough!_ Get out of here!" 

Still snickering, they fled. Weight settled back over him, the almost pleasant voice laughing, "Where were we?" If he shut his eyes, blanked out, maybe he could pretend those teasing fingers belonged to a girl; Lily, yes, but Lily would never- 

Relax? Relax, when that trailing finger was snaking across shuddering flesh to- 

"I told you to relax." The voice was surprisingly lacking in cruelty, though traces of lazy admonition lingered in his tone. "Gil, wasn't it? Do you know who Ganymede was, Gil?" 

_He's speaking to me as though I'm a child_, Gil said silently but indignantly, coherent thought surprisingly still manageable despite the uncomfortable position. But then, was he any more than a child to this haughty sixth year who strode about the Slytherin dormitories as if he owned the world? This rich and handsome boy who towered over him when he was standing, not to mention when he was sprawled on the common room floor with a finger up his- 

"N-no," he whispered between shuddering breaths. 

"Greek mythology." Two? No, not - Lucius sounded almost idly pedantic. "Zeus; you've got to know Zeus, don't you, boy?" Gil heard him hesitate. "Sorry. Gil." He had always thought of Lucius' fingers as slim, but now it was quite different. Relative, he supposed. "Zeus saw Ganymede in the fields one day and, overcome by lust for the boy, he carried him back to Olympus. You my Ganymede, Gil?" 

The stain, he had to focus, concentrate on that, not on the sudden pain that shot up his back- 

"And what," Lucius continued casually, "did lovely Ganymede feel? Terror? Flattered, was he? Repulsed? Frightened? Perhaps he grew used to him - Zeus was, after all, supposed to be a fabulous lover." 

What was that, the languid, hot feeling of - was he licking his neck? Gil whimpered. 

"Don't be ungrateful," the older boy frowned, twisting impatiently over his unwilling partner. "I could be crude about it, you know. I'm trying to be accommodating - making conversation, the like." 

"I-" No words were forthcoming, leaving the common room silence filled with awkward heavy breathing and choked back sobs. He couldn't help it; the sudden thought of his parents, dead and silent observers, made him flush and brought the inevitable tears. Gil hid his face. 

The floor was uncomfortably unyielding, that stain mocking him as it spread its raven wings across the grain of the wood. The common room was dark in the absence of firelight, its walls painted with midnight. Gil couldn't help but wonder what someone would think were they to walk in - or would they not even notice? Would they pass on by? Was he just another of the victims; if he told someone, would they just laugh? 

They wouldn't believe him; not Gil, no, they wouldn't believe him. Or maybe they would, and they would laugh anyway. 

Minutes seemed to stretch for hours. It's ridiculous to measure time in constant increments. To the mother whose son has grown, looking back the years disappear in the blink of an eye. To a husband just married who must leave the next morning, the moments pass too quickly. To the giddy lovestruck girl, she could spend hours simply gazing at the object of her affection; to a schoolboy in a loathed class, the minute hand seems immobile. Too soon do days flee, too quickly do they pass; others seem insufferably perpetual. Perhaps it was but the passing of a few moments, the shadows still stretching long on the walls, the outer sky still heavy with darkness, but to Gil the seconds were interminably long. 

"Gil? Are you all right?" 

He wouldn't let him see the tears. Nose pressed against the floor, he shut his eyes. 

"Gil?" Lucius took his arm, shaking him. There was a note of worry in his voice. "Get up." 

The only move he made was to curl tighter around himself, tousled hair a floppy curtain before his tearstained cheeks. Suddenly it was impossible to face Lucius. Gil felt the cool wood against his burning cheek, his eyes stinging. How many hours to dawn? How- 

"At least move to the couch?" the older boy coaxed. When he took hold of Gil's shoulder, his touch was angrily shaken off. He sighed. "Look, you're not hurt, are you? I-" 

Gil made a slight noise of dissent, though he did not budge. "Lea' me alone." 

Not entirely sure what he had expected to begin with, Lucius stood up in frustration. Gil had originally planned to flee back to his dormitory after the other's footsteps faded into the night, but in the end all he had energy enough to do was lie there and cry himself into an unsettled sleep.   


  


-=-=-=- 

  


It was early morning when Gil arose from the floor, body stiff, neck aching, traces of salty teardrops still dusty on his cheeks. He walked to the window, brushing aside one heavy curtain to press his face against the comfort of cold glass. Blotchy storm clouds were spread over the pale sky. Their heavy grayness made a sort of tie-dyed pattern over the horizon; still shining with the faint light that comes before dawn. Between them hung a sliver of porcelain white. 

"Is it morning?" The lazy voice from the couch startled Gil and he turned, astonished and blushing, to face Lucius. The older boy was reclining on the pillows there, hands beneath his head, hooded eyes watching Gil. 

"Um…yeah. Sort of. It's light out." 

Awkward silence settled over the room and its dim shadows. Lucius shrugged. "Did you sleep?" 

"Sort of," Gil repeated, eyes now seeking out the floor. There was that stain, blossoming over the wood - it looked different in the morning light, smaller. "Er…did you?" 

"Yes, but I was on the couch, and you were on the floor." Frowning, pale face flickering with shadows in the pre dawn, Lucius sat up. "Are you…all right? You wouldn't move; I couldn't just leave you on the floor there. It looked uncomfortable." 

So he had slept on the couch to watch over him, instead of returning to the dormitory? Gil wasn't sure what he felt about that. 

"I'm not insensitive, you know." Lucius stood up and stepped towards him, wincing as his back cracked. "I'm not the hit-and-run type." 

"You seem like it." Gil's face turned again towards the window. 

"Yeah? Well, I'm not." His annoyed tone faded, and the room descended once more into the silence broken only by their breathing. 

The edges of the clouds were already aflame, tinged with the ruddy light that the approaching sun brought. Soon they would lighten to white, fluttering amorphous shapes in the baby blue sky. 

"My parents died yesterday." Gil was still pointedly looking out the window, his eyes searching the void of sky. An owl swooped by in the distance, or perhaps it was a hawk. In any case, it soon faded to a far off black speck, vanishing over the tree line and into the milky dawn. He wasn't sure why he said it, or why now the words slipped so velvety smooth off his tongue. One might almost guess he didn't care - if they didn't look into his eyes. 

"I'm sorry." Lucius laid a hand on the boy's shoulder but pulled it away when he flinched. Sounding guilty, he added, "I - I didn't know-" 

Gil's shrug was flimsy, forcedly light. "How could you've? It doesn't matter." 

"C'mere." Enfolding the shivering boy in his arms, he smiled faintly when the action brought no resistance. Whatever else Lucius Malfoy was, he was not unfeeling. And the fourth year boy seemed so fragile in his embrace, trembling, thin bones and delicate skin all shadow next to the pained jolt of blue in his eyes. "Was it Vol - was it You-Know-Who?" 

"My father was an Auror," Gil said. "They didn't like him." 

"Understatement of the century, there," Lucius chuckled gently. "What Death Eater does like an Auror?" Gil was silent. Lucius sighed, breath but a whisper past his ear. "Look, Gil - you're a good kid. Your parents'd be proud of you." The silence weaving between his words was beginning to unnerve him. Sure, his father's friends came and went, but he had never been on the other end of the spectrum. He had never witnessed the pain. "I - I'm sure of it." 

"You don't make a habit out of comforting people, do you?" Gil raised a tear-stained face, though he managed the faintest trace of a smile. 

Lucius smiled back, relieved at even a minor show of cheer from the boy. He felt guilty for reasons he could barely begin to fathom. "Oh? Thanks to me, you're already smiling." 

The boy tried to repress the faint curl of his lips. He couldn't. 

"See?" Lucius laughed, stepping away from him - now sure, at least for now, of his temporary stability - to tie the curtains back and let the morning in. The sky was a crystalline blue, the once gray clouds that had hovered above the horizon turned to milky wisps. "World class comforter. Not to mention future Head Boy." 

"Way to be egotistical." Though he surreptitiously wiped the droplets from his eyes, Gil turned away. "It's morning." 

"Yes, it is." Lying a hesitant hand on his thin shoulder, Lucius added quietly, "I'm sorry...for, you know. Yesterday wasn't your day, was it?" 

"Understatement of the century, there," Gil echoed, faint grin still lingering on his lips. "Don't worry about it. I think - I'm going to bed, you know, before breakfast." 

"Are you sure you're all right?" 

Gil looked up. If he was startled or at all surprised at his unexpected company that morning, he didn't show it. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, the lingering remnants of hasty tears, he gave a hollow smile. "Yeah. I'll be all right." 

"Er...good morning, then." 

Halfway to the door, Gil turned back. Shouldn't he be resentful, or hateful, or...something? Even the mortification he'd felt at the first glimpse of Lucius, _after_, had mostly faded. He just felt...well, tired, but... 

"Good morning." 

Lucius watched him disappear into the dawn's early shadows.   


  


-=-=-=- 

  


It was three nights later, curled in his bed, clutching a tattered scrap of parchment, that Gil first wondered why. 

_Common room, 10:00_, was all the parchment said. It was from two nights ago, having fluttered discreetly over his shoulder at breakfast. Turning, all he had seen was Snape's smirk as he turned away. And Gil had gone, of course; had he a choice? That night, and the next; and now? 

For possibly being considered a rapist, Lucius was a surprisingly considerate one. He was always so _polite_ about it. Maybe that was why Gil had slipped out to the common room the past two nights without too much deliberation, maybe that was why he hadn't minded too much when he ended up leaving the tangle of Lucius' arms in the middle of the night and getting but a few hours of sleep. 

Why? That was the question. Why that day, why him? Because he was "pretty," was that it? Because Fate delighted in his torment? Why; why the next night and last - why was it less painful, more - Why? Why not now? Why did he even care? 

It was strange, how things faded away. His parents' deaths were already bleached and flimsy, whispers of clouds in the pale dusk. Dull ache in the shadows, nothing more. 

No, there was a new storm on the horizon. 

It would have been easy enough to be resentful, considering. Really, Gil wasn't supposed to...to not _mind_. But when Lucius asked him concernedly if he was all right about his parents and that really, he didn't _have_ to, he didn't want to upset Gil; when he looked so sincerely worried, even with that casual smirk; when he teasingly called him Ganymede and ruffled his hair like an older brother - it was as if they had slipped into a comfortable pattern, something Gil adapted to all too easily. And when it was broken? 

And could he deny how he'd waited for Snape the morning after, anticipating the parchment and its instructions? Could he forget how it had been on his mind all of Potions; not the most pleasant of recollections, sure, but he wasn't - wasn't tormented by it. 

And it was simple, really. Pathetic, of course, but... Would Patrick, his swagger and his sneering insults, be so easily swept under the ridiculous spell of the other's simple presence? Would anyone else, accepted and befriended, really care? Would they wonder, too; would they toss and turn when no parchment came, wondering why? 

Why? 

The room was awash in a dim blue, the morning's earliest glow drenching the floor with its eerie light. The curtains were drawn and fastened securely around each of the other boys' beds; he couldn't tell if any were gone or not. Maybe it was a first or second year, even third. Maybe fifth, maybe...maybe it was Snape, maybe it was anyone, how could he know? Maybe Lucius was just looking to sleep. 

Or maybe Gil was just a mistake, as usual, tossed from one moment to the next like a toy boat on the raging waters of the Atlantic. What a thing, to look down at your son and realize all the horrible truths of his existence. Would you be proud? 

Gil rolled over, staring into the heavy shadows interwoven with tender daylight. He couldn't have explained it, then - perhaps he never could - but he could not stop the tears that burned into the lonely, lightening dawn. 

His tears were not shed for the dead, but rather the living. 

______________________________________________________________   
Belated A/N: If their first meeting scene seemed awkward, that's probably because it was awkward to write. The interim between this chapter and the next skips a considerable amount of time, about a year. You know, for the record. A grateful thanks to Rosie Sinistra - your review made my day (and several days after)! Thanks to all; next is coming. 


	4. I Loved You

  
Title: Untouchable Face (I Loved You) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: Amalin32@aol.com 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The song "Dilate," from which the lyrics are taken, belongs to Ani DiFranco. Chapters Three and Four are titled after the Ani DiFranco song, "So What." 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What then?   


  


c h a p t e r t h r e e -- i l o v e d y o u 

_"...when i say you sucked my brain out_   
_the English translation is:_   
_i am in love with you and it is no fun_   
_but i don't use words like love_   
_'cos words like that don't matter_   
_but don't look so offended_   
_you know you should be flattered…"_

  


He was shivering on a bench when Lucius found him, teeth chattering in harsh counter-rhythm to the strains of music spilling from the Great Hall. 

"You bloody idiot," Lucius chuckled, sitting down beside him. "If you're so cold, why didn't you come in?" 

"Didn't want to." Tearing the last velvety petal from his dissected rose, Gil let the remains of the flower fall to the ground beside the bush from which it had come. _He loves me, he loves me not..._ How ridiculous it all was, really. Lucius' arms were warm when they slipped around him, his silky robes smooth against Gil's skin. "W-what are you doing out here, anyway? If it's so cold?" 

"Mm? I'm not cold." His body was so solid and reliably comforting, his gentle musk enveloping the boy's senses. "Came looking for you." 

Gil glanced away. "Why? It's your last ball. Why look for me?" 

"Just 'cause you have two more years doesn't mean you shouldn't have fun," Lucius retorted. "Face it, you've been avoiding me. I want to know why. I thought we had an understanding." Reaching out for another rose, Gil accidentally grasped a thorn with his thumb and pulled away with an angry gash. He sucked it defiantly, shrugging. "Come on, Gil," Lucius persisted, "what are you doing out here? Besides mutilating the school's rosebushes and sulking in the cold?" 

"An understanding?" He glanced to the trampled snow, the pure white swirled with muddied slush. "Is that what you want?" 

"What do _you_ want?" 

"It doesn't matter what I want! It's not about _me_, is it? It never has been." 

Gil was startled when the hand touched his cheek, surprisingly warm despite being in the icy air. He reluctantly turned to look at Lucius. 

"I'm sorry, Gil," Lucius said softly. "But no one in their right mind... What were you expecting, a Lily-and-James romance?" 

And, Gil realized, he had expected that - on some level, anyway. He thought for a moment about Lily, the girl he had idolized for so long. She'd graduated the year before, shyly announcing her and James' engagement. But then, it had come as no surprise, had it? He had yearned for that, wanted that in a way he couldn't explain. Wanted someone to look at _him_ as someone, to regard him as special and important, share in his dreams and disappointments. He'd wanted that sort of romance, the ofttimes corny "love" that the two had so obviously shared. 

But did he now? Would he trade? 

"I wasn't trying to le-" 

"No," Gil sighed, interrupting. Lucius actually seemed worried. "No, I - I should've learned not to expect anything, good or otherwise." 

He seemed to be studying Gil, head slightly tilted, a partial frown slipping over his face. "You're different, you know," Lucius said quietly. "The boy I first met was-" 

"Innocent?" 

Lucius glanced away. "Yeah. Maybe that's it." 

Gil shrugged, his bitter laughter but a soft echo in the wintery garden. "Everyone grows up sometime. Anyway, my parents died." They hadn't spoken of it since, though more than a year had passed. And then, looking at the older boy with his faded curls and winter snow in his eyes, Gil found himself not caring. Who was he to be bitter? There was something too human about Lucius to hate; he cared, somehow, in his own way. And somehow, in his own way, Gil cared back. He wanted to voice it, tell the other that he wasn't bitter, wasn't regretful, wasn't angry, but - The only words that leapt to his tongue didn't fit. Couldn't fit. 

He reached for another rose, but Lucius stopped his hand. "Dance with me?" 

"Here?" 

"No, on the moon. Yes, here." Lucius pulled him to his feet, grinning, arm slipping about the boy's slender waist. "What, a cultured gentleman like you doesn't know how to dance?" 

_I love-_ No, it didn't fit. But they hovered on his tongue, dangerously close to slipping out. They were gently swaying under the frosted night sky, the trailing clouds like icing drizzle. Though Gil had finally, miraculously grown at the end of his fourth year, Lucius was still several inches taller. It was a sweet sort of harmony, the way their bodies curved together - for once not an urgent coupling but a gentler sort of rhythm that led them tracing languid circles on the stones and melted snow. 

_I love your eyes; the way you look at me sometimes, like you're working out one of your difficult Arithmancy problems. I love your smile: its fleeting, guarded appearances. I love your voice - the way you say my name sometimes, as if it might mean something. I love the way your hair slips over your forehead, the flush in your cheeks, the careless, gliding way you move; I love your hands, your body, your superiority. And I lo-_

No. 

"I never-" Somehow, the words choked on the way out. "I never thought of you as the romantic type." 

"Romance?" Fingers played over his back; searing blue met tarnished gray as their gazes interlocked. "This isn't romance, Gil." 

"It's dancing," he pointed out. Dancing under the stars, dancing in the winter twilight chill but kept warm by the heat of each other, dancing as their visible breath formed smoky halos about their heads - or were they nooses? Dancing with their fingers intertwined, bodies pressed together, one - it _was_ romantic - moment of a starlit night. 

"Yes," Lucius conceded, "it is." 

How did Ganymede feel? Horrified? Flattered? Conflicted? Did he long for the mundane comfort of mortal life, or did he cherish the promised immortality and perpetual youth? Did he chafe at the bonds of his captivity? Or, drinking in the intoxicating ambrosia scent lingering on the skin of his lord and lover, did he simply feel... 

Satisfied?   


-=-=-=- 

  


The hallways were dusky with shadows, swooping like exaggerated swallows and chasing each other into oblivion. Gil clutched his wand tighter in his pocket, though he knew it would hardly do him any good. It wasn't as if he could do much more than light it. 

He tripped, sprawling on the floor in the dark corridor. Scrabbling to his knees, he found himself staring into the menacing glare of Patrick. Patrick's best friend, Derrick Lorrel, loomed up behind him. 

"We've missed you, Gil," Patrick snickered. "Been a month or so, hm?" 

"Goddamn fag's been busy, hasn't he?" Derrick punched him without warning, watching dispassionately as the more fragile boy stumbled. "Malfoy's little whore, eh, Lockhart?" 

Gil staggered, trying to catch his breath. His cheek stung sharply where he was punched a second time, tripping into Patrick. So it had been for a year, taunting the boy when they were too frightened to mock Lucius. No one dared to speak out to the flamboyant seventh year, but there was little hesitation when it came to Gil. 

He waited for the next blow. It never came. 

"Is there a problem here?" Impressively ominous as he glided from the shadows, Severus Snape also held the added weight of being a Prefect. And, as all three boys knew, Prefects could often issue detentions. 

"No problem," Patrick said smoothly. "We're all friends here, aren't we? Sorry if we're disturbing you." 

"Indeed?" Snape scowled. "You shouldn't be down here, anyway. Kearny, Lorrel, get out of here." They lingered until the considerably larger shadows of Crabbe and Goyle emerged from the well of darkness that coated the hall; their footsteps echoed long after they were out of sight. Gil fidgeted, both grateful and horribly embarrassed. He rarely had contact with Lucius' friends - Crabbe and Goyle were all right, the two sixth years too dense to catch any but the most obvious innuendos. Snape, however, seemed to taunt Gil every time they met. Not exactly in the heartless cruelty of Patrick and his friends, though it wasn't friendly jest. There was no friendly jest between those who weren't friends. Still, they rarely interacted unless Snape was instructed to run some message for Lucius. 

"Er...thanks," he said slowly, eyes focused elsewhere. 

"I would think," Snape said condescendingly, "that you would know how to keep out of trouble by now. I should give you detention for being out and about so late." 

"It's only..." he checked his watch, "nine o'clock!" Gil never knew just how Snape got to be a Prefect. Of course, he excelled at all of his classes, as Lucius could attest, but he abused the privileges horribly. At least, so it seemed to Gil. 

Snape smirked. "Anyway, I happen to know a certain seventh year who's cleaning trophies tomorrow night. You'll be expected at nine. And don't go wandering nights anymore." Almost before the words had left his mouth, he had turned away. "Later, Lockhart." 

He had asked Lucius about Snape, once. Lucius had only shrugged. Gil suspected, or at least he had, that Lucius was sometimes jealous of Severus - but Lucius had never agreed with this hypothesis, laughing it off. "It's a sort of loyalty," he had said casually. "Our families go back pretty far together, anyhow." 

And Gil didn't ask questions. Lucius was the sort, anyway. The type of person with the charm and charisma to lead. People followed without question; maybe because they had no other choice. They were drawn to him. 

Like the helpless prey ceases to squirm in the eagle's talons after so long. Like the clouds of Olympus become more familiar than the beauty of home. Like loneliness becomes need becomes adoration becomes... 

Gil bit back the word, shifting his train of thought. Trophy room, he could do that. Snape, well...he wasn't all that bad, sometimes. Smiling faintly into the shadows, he set off for the Slytherin tower. 

_...loneliness...need...lust...adoration...worship...love..._   


-=-=-=- 

  


"It's almost kinky. I mean, the Astronomy Tower's one thing, it's expected, but the Trophy Room? It's like you can see yourself in all these miniature brass mirrors." 

Gil just raised an eyebrow. 

"Did you tell Snape to give me detention?" he asked instead of replying, sitting up and leaning against a glass case. "Yesterday?" 

"No. He can get creative, huh?" Lucius grinned. "Made sure that git Patrick learned his lesson, too. This morning while you were in Divination." Seeing the mixed emotions on Gil's face, he shook his head. "Don't give me that noble expression, Gil. If Snape beat 'em up as much as they've picked on you, they'd be six feet under." 

"_Snape_ beat them up, you say?" Gil echoed, grinning. 

Lucius shrugged. "Crabbe 'n Goyle, same difference. He's still the dark overlord watching from the shadows." 

"Oh, that's not you?" 

Halfheartedly tossing his polishing rag at Gil, Lucius grinned. "Nah. I'm not much in for the lurking." 

Shadows fluttered their exaggerated wings on the walls, swirling in a desperate chase of tag. The shapes merged and separated, looming like ungainly shadow puppets with consciousness of their own. Gil sighed, eyes flickering to the washed out reflection that wavered in the glass. The boy that stared back was almost unrecognizable, less lanky and timid than he was used to. But then, he didn't look in the mirror, much. He never liked people staring at him, least of all himself. 

"Is something the matter?" Lucius sat up, distractedly scratching his head. "You look..." 

He never seemed to find the right word, always let Gil finish for him. Possibly it was a simple ploy to get Gil to talk; he didn't mind, he liked the way they shared sentences. "Sad?" he offered obligingly. 

Lucius shrugged. "I suppose. C'mon, two months to go! Cheer up, Ganymede; you look cuter when you smile." 

He clung stubbornly to his wavering frown. "So?" Two months, two simple months that weighed on his mind every day. Two months...and then what? Then they would part ways? A friend-like hug, possibly a handshake - a simple glance and he would be gone? He didn't like to admit it, but... 

Gil wasn't sure if he could deal with two more years of Hogwarts _without_ Lucius. 

"What's got you all moody tonight?" 

"Nothing." 

Lucius frowned at him for a few moments, still trying to work out the puzzle. Finally, he just grinned. "Well, if it cheers you up, a few Hufflepuff sixth years think you're quite the item. Heard 'em giggling about you at dinner." Raising an eyebrow, he added, "Last week there was a secret admirer letter for you at breakfast. Got some friends you aren't telling me about, Gil?" 

Gil snorted. "Not likely. I don't pay attention to those." He hated it, really, the awkward attention such letters brought. The way people pointed and giggled, sometimes, in the halls. 

"Good." Lucius trailed a finger lazily up his arm, then paused, a mischievous smile twitching his lips. "And don't worry about it. I told them you were gay." 

"Hey!" 

"I thought you said you paid no attention to them." He grinned. 

"I _don't_." 

"Well?" 

He hated that - hated and loved it - how Lucius never failed to make him smile. It made him feel weak, giving in to his charm like that. But he really didn't mind; it was comforting, somehow. "Well, what?" 

"Well, what's going on? You've got that _look_." 

"I have a Look?" 

"Sort of skeptical and sorrowful and poor little Gil all at once," Lucius suggested helpfully. "When you're thinking." 

Gil might have been offended if he hadn't been so flattered. Lucius - he noticed when Gil was looking like that, noticed when he was thoughtful or upset. Gil bit his lip. "'S nothing. I'm just worried about graduation, er. You know? In a few months." 

"Why? _You're_ not graduating. Don't you think you've got good enough marks this year?" 

All right, so perhaps Lucius wasn't so perceptive as to be omniscient. Gil shook his head. 

"What does _that_ mean? You're going to fail the year?" Another shake. "Um...hey, this is like charades...or not, but, er, something...you're...worried about _me_ graduating?" Silence. Teasingly, "Why? I've certainly got the marks to pass, don't I?" Shaking his head at Gil's hurt expression, Lucius laughed. "Come on, I was joking. Don't get all twisted up over it. It's months away." 

"Two." 

"Eight weeks?" 

"I guess." Gil looked away. 

"Come on! Deal with it when it comes, right? That's the best way." Lucius shrugged. "Think about the Quidditch match next week! Slytherin is going to beat Gryffindor once and for all." 

"You don't like Quidditch." 

"I never said that!" Lucius grinned, having temporarily distracted the other. "I'm just not real _interested_. But I have school spirit, huh?" 

"Sure." Gil tried not to smile. He did. "Are you, er, going home for the Easter holidays?" 

Lucius shrugged. "I haven't decided. Prob'ly not. Mum likes company, but I think she's invited the family and I don't want to deal with them." He frowned slightly, gazing into a polished trophy but looking at some fardistant point. "Doesn't matter. Father'll be busy. Are you?" 

"Nah. My aunt 'n uncle don't want me." 

"Ah. All right." 

Silence. Gil glanced nervously into the shadows, sighing inwardly. "Are..." he began hesitantly. "Are the others staying? I - I mean, Snape and Crabbe and Goyle and the rest-" 

"Don't think so. Just you 'n me, Gil." 

They both grinned rather uncertainly into their separate corners of the room, each staring at the flickering shadows on opposite walls. "Should prob'ly...go to bed now," Gil finally said, shattering the silence. "'S late." 

"It isn't _that_ late," Lucius insisted. "Here, I've got some Butterbeer stashed away, I could go get some-" 

"I don't drink it," Gil said flatly. The simple word conjured the same bitter taste in his mouth, the same swirling image of swallowing darkness... "Er, don't ask. I just - I don't drink it." 

"What an enigma you are, Ganymede," laughed the other. "All right, then. I guess it's late enough, then." 

Gil nodded with a sigh. "I'll-" 

"Wait." Lucius held out a hand and Gil pulled him to his feet. "I'll walk back with you. No reason to linger about _here_." Thousands of coppery reflections stared back at them, and Gil turned away. A comradely arm was slung over his shoulders. "C'mon. S'pose you're right, it is rather late. Got a Potions exam tomorrow." 

"But you're _good_ at Potions," Gil reminded him in a whisper as they slipped out into the abandoned hall. 

Lucius grinned. "Oh, yeah. I am." 

Their footsteps echoed softly in the dusty corridor and the shadows spilled around them as they walked on into midnight.   


-=-=-=- 

  


Gil contemplated the boy. He was thirteen, blandly brown hair flopping over his forehead in limp waves. His eyes were generally blank and disinterested in the world. He seemed utterly oblivious to the fact that someone was staring at him with - if looks could kill - a death glare. 

However, Gil was. 

"_Someone's_ a little preoccupied," Lucius noted, waving a hand in front of Gil's face. "What's the matter?" 

Gil did not miss the fact that Lucius seemed to be asking him that every day now. Was he always so sullen or did Lucius simply assume? 

"And _someone's_ a little jealous," Snape snickered, looking up from his reading. His dinner was barely touched. 

"What do you mean?" Trevor was not the only Slytherin who seemed oblivious today. Lucius frowned. "Severus, what are you talking about?" 

Snape could not help rolling his eyes. "Who stole _your_ brain and used it for a potion? Come on here, this isn't complicated Arithmancy." When Lucius only frowned, he resorted to pointing at Gil, then gesturing towards Trevor. 

Slowly, Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Why are you staring at Trevor, Gil? Are you angry with him?" 

Snorting when Gil frustratedly rose from his chair, Snape shook his head. "Can you be any _denser_? This isn't complicated." The two seventh years watched Gil slow to a walk as he exited the Hall: one perplexed, one amused. "Oh, for Merlin's sake! You were using him, Lucius! Of course, he _knew_ that, but he didn't want to believe it. My guess is, he ran across you and Trevor the other night." 

"Wha-" 

"You aren't always the most discreet," Snape added, smirk still lingering on his lips. "The common room, _really_, Lucius. Yes, before you ask, you should go after him; I know you aren't cruel enough to calmly eat your dinner while little Gildy sobs his eyes out up in the tower." 

"Would he really-" 

"No, he wouldn't literally cry his eyes out." 

"Argh, I meant, would he really be so...upset? Before there's been..." 

"The straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak." 

"_What?_" 

Snape turned back to his book exasperatedly. "Just go." 

Lucius went. Footsteps urgent on the worn floors and the flights of steps, he made his way to the Slytherin common room. Snape's words echoed in his ears. He found Gil staring angrily at the fire; not, as predicted, crying, but undeniably upset. He stood there for a moment, unsure whether his presence was known or not, but nevertheless somehow unable to bring himself to speak. 

"What do you want?" Gil asked bitterly without turning. "Scheduling problems? Trevor not available tonight?" 

"It's not _like_ that!" Lucius, his own temper flaring for a moment, strode towards the couch. "You've known me for over a year, what did you think? You know everything! I haven't been-" 

"I know." Gil did not look up. "It's no _secret_." 

"Well then, _why_-" 

"You really don't get it, do you? We're all nothing to you, people you toss around without thinking. For your own selfish uses. You never stop to think that maybe we care, maybe we notice! Maybe we're actually people who actually _feel_, Lucius! Did that occur to you?" His gaze was empty fury, lost in the firelight's glow. "Did it...did it matter to you?" 

"Gil, I-" 

Silence. A sigh, a softer tone. Try again. 

"What did you think, Gil? I was in love with you?" The voice wasn't derisive, only concerned, and that made it so much the worse. 

"No." Pause. "Yes. No." 

"Gil," Lucius said urgently, "love doesn't exist. All right? You knew that from the beginning; we didn't exactly start out consensual, remember? Love is lust, Gil, or it's hate, or some fanciful illusion. Nothing else is real." 

There was a long silence. "Why?" 

Lucius misinterpreted the question. "Because my life is laid out for me. Because I knew where I was going from the day I was born. Because in three years - yes, it's planned - I'm getting married, inheriting Malfoy Manor, and becoming my father. These were my last years, Gil. I needed to have my own fun." 

"Fun? Is that - is that what I am? Fun?" 

"Of course you're fun." Lucius grinned, though it faded at Gil's tortured expression. "Look, it wasn't just the sex. If I ran my life, would it be different? Who knows. But sooner or later, we're all someone's dog.* The question is, whose?" 

Before Gil could stutter a reply, his lips were very much occupied. Lucius managed to be both insistent and gentle. He tasted bitter like smoke and sweet like velvet wine, tongue teasingly caressing Gil's upper lip. Their breath mingled in the quiet. 

After a year and a half, it was their first kiss. 

Later - much later - in the seventh year dorm, Lucius rolled sleepily onto his stomach and sighed. "Gil-" he began. 

"I didn't expect you to love," Gil said quickly. "I never thought you were going to. Just, uh, so you know. I wasn't - expecting anything." 

"-I just wanted-" 

"And maybe you're right about love not existing. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe there are just these things, these _moments_, that we like to call love, because there's nothing else. Because we need something to hold on to. It's - it's a stupid concept anyway, isn't it? No one can ever tell if it's really love or not." He was babbling, trying vainly to stop sounding so desperate. "And if we make things that aren't love _into_ love, then it doesn't matter if it exists or not; it turns out that-" 

"Will you shut up?" Lucius ruffled his hair, almost fondly. "I was asking you if you wanted to stay the summer holidays." 

Gil's mouth opened and shut. "I-" He meant to say no. I couldn't possibly. No, thank you. Sorry, I can't. I'd better not. Nah, I couldn't. Thanks, but no. He opened his mouth but no words fought their way out. 

All he could do was nod yes.   


______________________________________________________________________   
* = Taken from (I think) Terry Pratchett's Jingo. Or at least one of the Watch books. Vimes said it, I know that. Terry Pratchett rules all! 

Ah, meaningless chapter, but the beginning scene was undeniably fun. I feel it captures both of them perfectly. Besides that, meaningless chapter, but romance is all right. (Not as good as angst, but on occasion it works.) For the record, Trevor the boy is later complicatedly transfigured into Neville's toad, which is a unique and delicately interwoven plot twist that no one saw coming and creates all sorts of wondrous, previously unseen, brand new - okay, he has no relation whatsoever to Neville's toad. In case anyone was wondering. 

And a great big thank you to limeade and bluechocobo; both reviews made me ever so happy. Muchas gracias. And now, adios...'til next time! 


	5. So What

Title: Untouchable Face (So What) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: Amalin32@aol.com 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The song "So What," from which the lyrics are taken, belongs to Ani DiFranco. 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What then?   


  


c h a p t e r f o u r -- s o w h a t 

_"...who are you now and who were you then_   
_that you thought somehow, you could just pretend_   
_you could figure it all out - the mathematics of regret_   
_so it takes two beers to remember now_   
_and five to forget_

_i loved you, so..._   
_yeah, i loved you, so what..."_

  
  


It was possibly the best summer of his life. At a quick glance it was like a shining mosaic, each detailed tile blurring into a golden haze, though close up - frantic tangle of limbs, silvery lake with fish tickling past toes, ornate gardens spilling over the cracks in the walls, laughter echoing from the stained glass and vaulted ceilings in the library - each moment was a work of art itself. And he had a mother again. 

"Personally, I think it's creepy," Lucius joked one day, rolling his eyes. "I mean, what, are you sleeping with her behind my back? You spend more time with her than you do me!" 

Gil splashed him. After the brief tussle that followed, he lay on his back in the water, limbs splayed, eyes to the clouds, letting the silvery surface settle back to placid undulation again. "Of course not," he clarified, "but I miss my mum, you know. And she's so nice." 

And, contrary to the nature of the family she'd married into, Portia Malfoy was. 

She was passive and demure when around her strong-willed husband, but he was rarely home. She would disperse handpicked bouquets of wildflowers about the house, hustling the house elves out of the kitchen so she could bake cookies for the boys. She played the piano in the evening and the lonely strains of Bach or Mozart would often weave their way into the growing dusk where Gil and Lucius were. She hated wine and preferred tea with her homely meals, dressing more often in jeans than she did in gowns or traditional robes. Her husband would have complained, but his footsteps graced the halls of the manor only once or twice that summer, and so Portia went her own way. 

Sometimes when Lucius was asleep and Gil was tired of watching him in sleepless frustration, Gil would tiptoe down the marble stairs and into the kitchen. Mrs. Malfoy - though she insisted on being called Portia, not everything had to be so formal - would almost always be there, hands curled around a steaming cup of tea, smiling into the vapor at visions only she could imagine. She welcomed Gil's company gladly and never condemned him for his inability at this or his thoughts on that. 

Yes, he had a mother again, and a true friend. 

He was set in the sleepy rhythm of those summer days: late mornings and lazy afternoons, coppery sunsets followed by the pouring in of dusk's hazy cobalt. He was used to the rolling fields, the wildflowers and waves of grass that lit with lines of sunlight on certain afternoons. He knew the spicy taste of Portia's beloved cookies, loved to walk the halls of portraits and mirrors that stared haughtily down at him. He took for granted the long afternoons in the library with Lucius or the races towards the argentine lake on the edge of the manor. He savored the taste of the cool water on his tongue and the way the sky looked when he floated on his back, Lucius' voice washing over him. 

He was not, however, prepared when the doorbell rang one humid morning and admitted a furious Severus Snape. 

"_Lockhart_?" Scowling incredulously, he shouldered past the slim boy and into the front hall. "Where's Lucius?" 

Still reeling from the sudden appearance of Snape, Gil gulped and glanced nervously towards the stairs. "He's still asleep. Er. Portia - er, Mrs. Malfoy - is in the garden, I think." 

"Is his father here?" Snape did not seem pleased to find Gil the only one close by - even less pleased than he had been to find Gil at all. 

"No, he hasn't been here since June." 

"Damn! Lucius!" Striding angrily towards the stairs, Snape raised his voice. It echoed from the lofty ceiling, gently tinkling the chandeliers and making one ancient Malfoy ancestor sidle nervously out of his painting. "_Lucius_!" he yelled again. "Get _down_ here! We don't have all day!" 

It was several minutes later when a tousled and yawning Lucius appeared at the head of the stairs, still tugging on a crumpled silk robe. "Whazzat?" Staring down at the scene before him - a cowering Gil and an irate Snape - he frowned. "Severus? What're you doing here?" 

"Check the damn calendar, Malfoy." Advancing several steps, Snape seemed to have forgotten about Gil. His features were twisted in an angry sneer. "Have you forgotten the date? It's time!" 

Even from where he stood, Gil could tell that something changed. Lucius was no longer bemusedly smiling, his expression instead shifting to a trapped, feverish stare. Slowly tying his robe, he took a step down, gaze not on Snape but on the air behind him. When he spoke, his voice was deliberately musing, and to Gil he sounded suddenly ill. "Already? So soon?" 

"Soon?" Eyes trailing sideways to Gil, Snape smirked. "You have lost track of time, haven't you? Busy summer, I'd guess?" Another glance at the boy. "It's August first, Lucius, and we were supposed to be somewhere-" checking his watch- "about ten minutes ago." 

If he had been pale before, he was quite ghostly by this time. Swallowing, Lucius looked guiltily at his houseguest. "Sorry, Gil - Severus is right, I've got to go. I'll be back before dinner, prob'ly." Hustling back up the stairs, he dashed to change. 

"Where are you going?" Gil found his voice, somehow, in the surprise that shuddered through his mind. It was August already? And - something was changing, he was sure of it. Far earlier than he had expected. 

"None of your business," Snape returned icily. "Lucius'll tell you if he wants you to know." 

The tall Malfoy, clothes still in disarray, nearly tripped down the stairs after Snape. "I'm coming," he panted, pausing for a moment beside Gil. "I-" In one swift motion, he stumbled over and pulled a startled Gil into an unexpected, fervent kiss. When the boy recovered, the other two were already out the door. Snape was staring pointedly at the sky, though he was smirking innocently at those lazy clouds. 

Despite the heat still lingering on his lips, the memory of a hand pressing urgently against his back, Gil felt a chill sweep through his body. _Every cupbearer has his end._

Without speaking, he knew the summer - and all its frantic glory - was gone.   


  


-=-=-=- 

  


Twilight had settled around the mansion by the time Lucius returned and the stars twinkled like so many displaced diamonds scattered through the sky. Gil was perched on the edge of a rusted lawn chair, a bowl of melted ice cream lying discarded at his side. 

"Lucius?" All too aware of his lonely puppy dog tone, Gil scrambled to his feet. "Is that you?" 

The tall figure loped across the lawns, every motion in the shadows betraying his weariness. He collapsed in the chair Gil had vacated. 

"Are you all right? Do you want me to get your mum?" 

"No!" Lucius glanced upwards, eyes glittering oddly in the evening light. He sighed and repeated more softly, "No, Gil. I'm fine. She can't do anything, anyway. It's Father who runs this house, albeit from a few countries away." 

Silence fell over the two, shuddering in great waves over the hills, interrupted only by the distant hoot of an owl. Gil bit his lip, gnawing nervously, twisting his hands together. "Um, Lucius?" The other boy didn't look up. "I wondered - er, Snape said -" 

"Gil, please. Not now." 

The boy could not, however, suppress the growing fear in his stomach. "But-" 

Lucius sighed heavily. "Okay! Okay, just remember, you _wanted_ to know!" Thrusting his arm angrily towards his companion, he waited. "Roll up my sleeve." 

The wind shivered, lonely, through the flowering trees. Relative silence fell over the lawn. Gil's hands trembled like the leaves on the trees, fearfully brushing back the other's robe. Even in the shadowy dusk the mark spread like a bleeding stain on his pale skin. "I-" He knew he was gaping but could not disguise the horror in his eyes. "How - how could-" 

"Don't blame me." The voice was emotionless, glassy, chilled and bitter like antique wine. "You knew. Don't tell me you didn't know." 

"Knew _what_?" Gil recoiled from the bruise-like stain. "How-" 

"Don't be a bloody idiot, Gil! I know you can be obstinate when you want to be. I was the Head Boy, I was in Slytherin, I'm - goddamnit, I'm a _Malfoy_! What did you _expect_, Gil? I told you what was going to happen after graduation, I warned you, didn't I?" 

"They killed my parents," he said, voice as controlled as he could make it - otherwise, he might be screaming. "Death Eaters _murdered_ my parents. And you-" 

Lucius yanked his sleeve back down as if the mark repulsed him as well. "Don't pretend I had a choice." 

"You _did_! You could have fought back, could have done something! But you just plodded along, all settled in the life you were handed; 'This is my last freedom, Gil, then I have to get married and kill people.' What, was it too much effort to try and _change_ the way things were?" 

"You don't know my father," Lucius growled, hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically. 

Gil looked away. "I don't have to. I know you. You said it yourself; after Hogwarts, you were destined to become him." 

"Gil…" For the first time he could remember, Lucius sounded desperate. "Don't hate me for who I am. You never did before." 

"You never had _that_ before!" Furiously blinking back tears, Gil looked away from him and into the edges of the shadowed grove. An owl hooted once more in the distance, its _whoo, whoo_ rustling through the forest like an alarm. _Wouldn't it be nice_, Gil thought roughly, _if all predators warned their prey_? Lucius' face was imperturbable, though his hands were periodically relaxing and clenching back into fists. His eyes were the same impassive silver. "I - God, why, Lucius?" 

"Because." His voice was tired, worn thin and ragged. He looked broken like a toy, broken like the iron heart he never let anyone else touch, broken like the pieces of their own hearts he shattered without looking back. Why? Because. "This is what I am. This is _all_ that I am." 

Gil was surprised to find his hands trembling. The night seemed colder than it had before, the blanket of stars less comforting. They had laid on the lawn one night, pointing out constellations to each other. It held none of the silly romance that some often jested about from the roof of the Astronomy Tower; neither did it hold any serious school feeling. It was peaceful, somehow lazily right, with the grass tickling his neck and Lucius' breath on his cheek. And now- 

Hesitantly, Lucius said, "When you graduate, you could join us and we-" 

"_What_?" Gil could do nothing more than stare incredulously. "You want me to become - become that? You want me to become you, just because you had to follow the footsteps of a whole line of dead Malfoys?" 

"Because I-" 

But Gil didn't want to hear it. He was, perhaps, afraid to hear it - afraid those simple words that rang in his head every time he saw Lucius would be too false to believe in. How could a Death Eater love? 

"I'm the same person, Gil," Lucius said gently, instead of the words that had come so close to clumsily tripping off his tongue. He had seen Gil's tormented expression, anyhow, and quickly backtracked from such a painful path. "It isn't as if Voldemort plucked out my soul and put it in a little glass vial, replaced it with some dark shadow. I'm still Lucius." 

"I know," answered Gil. "That's the problem." 

"So - so you aren't going to-" 

"To follow you around like a sad puppy? No. I have better plans for after Hogwarts." In truth, he had none. He had hoped - in some distant, yearning corner of his mind - that he might indeed stay with Lucius. But that was folly; he knew that. So why did it hurt so much? 

"Gil-" 

"_Don't touch me_!" His shout was more vehement than he'd expected, though it achieved the supposedly desired result. Lucius withdrew quickly, folding his arms instead. "I - I can't stay here," Gil said quickly. "Not like this." 

"I'm the same person," he insisted again, but Gil shook his head. 

"With a different master." 

"Voldem-" 

"Don't say the name!" Gil's somehow stubborn yet conflicted expression faced Lucius, who obligingly whispered, "You Know Who." 

"Just let me go. You've prolonged it long enough, haven't you? You _knew_ this was going to happen. Did you think I'd be happy?" 

"I-" 

"You thought I'd still follow you anywhere?" His voice broke. "You thought I'd still _love you_?" 

Neither had ever spoken the words. Of course, they may have in the seclusion of their own minds, but the actual sound had never touched air. 

Lucius was silent. 

"Promise me you won't lead your future son into this," Gil insisted when he got no answer. He hadn't expected one, eyes glittering strangely. Determined. "The Malfoy inheritance of _that_-" he gestured roughly towards Lucius' arm - "has to stop somewhere. Don't put him through _your_ torture." 

"I-" 

It was strange how, after the initial fury faded, all that remained was the hollow feeling. The endless aching goodbye. Some part of him shouted that it didn't matter, none of it - a mark on his arm, that was all. There was nothing to be so upset about. Nothing to end the summer about. Nothing to end..._everything._ "I'm sorry," Gil said quietly, "but I - I can't stay." 

"Where are you going now? School doesn't start again for-" 

"It doesn't matter where," Gil said roughly. "Not here." 

Lucius shut his eyes for a moment; scratched his head agitatedly as if thinking. "Stay the night, at least. Don't go running out there and get in some terrible accident. And don't you _dare_ try to Apparate. You'll probably get Splinched." 

"Nice to know you believe in me." Gil glanced away, over the trees. 

"I'm serious, Gil - please! I don't even have to be here, I'll go - damn, I'll go _somewhere_, and you can stay the night and leave in the morning, okay?" 

"I-" Gil still could not bring himself to meet the other's eyes. He didn't want to see; they might be the same, the emotion might be there, and then his resolve would be shaken, and then what? "When mortals believe in gods," he said instead, "what do gods believe in?" 

There was silence, and eventually Lucius turned and strode away. His defeated figure shifted through the darkening night, disappeared into the lonely shadows. 

Gil had not the heart to follow.   


-=-=-=- 

  


"Couldn't sleep?" There was still dirt lingering staunchly under the partially coral fingernails of those gentle hands. The fingers curled around a cup of tea and her pale eyes smiled welcomingly at Gil, signalling for him to take a chair. He did so. 

"I guess not. You're still up, again?" 

"I don't sleep much," she smiled, carefully pouring the steaming liquid into a cup for her young companion. "I see it as a waste of time. Why be caught up in the madness of dreams when you could be sitting here, drinking tea, contemplating into the dawn?" 

"Er." 

She pushed the cup across the table towards him and he took it gratefully. It stung his throat, but the warmth felt comforting. "Any particular reason for tonight's insomnia?" Portia Malfoy inquired, perceptive as ever. "My son didn't happen to return, did he? I know he tends to stay out late sometimes, but-" 

Gil looked away. "Yeah. He came back. But I think he went back out drinking, or something." 

"Without you?" 

"Yeah. Without me." 

A fondly sorrowful smile passed over her lips and she sipped her tea, nostalgia in her eyes. "Lucius has always been a unique boy. I remember when he was younger, he'd never obey his father, always do just the opposite. He got so frustrated that he told Lucius the opposite of what he wanted done." Biting her lip, she gazed past Gil and into the shadows of the adjoining room. "He even used to say, 'I hate you,' before leaving for work." 

Gil remained silent, though his mind was filled with images of a much younger Lucius waving goodbye to his father, the word _hate_ echoing in his ears. He, too, looked away into the other room. 

"My husband is not the most affectionate man," Portia said gently. "Lucius knows that." 

"He fell out of a tree, though." Gil was not entirely sure what the point was of saying so. Portia, however, smiled eagerly. 

"Oh, did Lucius tell you that story! How wonderful. Yes, he was only six years old and fell out of that huge tree by the lake; you know where it is, don't you?" She sipped again. "We were all so worried." 

Gil's half-smile couldn't help but be bitter. "And when he woke up did his father say 'I hate you' as always?" 

Portia reached over and took his hand gently. "I don't think," she told him, "that he said anything at all, he was too relieved. What's the matter, Gil, dear? Did something go amiss today?" 

"I suppose you could say that," he said reluctantly. "You know Snape - er, Severus Snape - stopped by? To take Lucius off." 

Gil was suddenly afraid that Portia would misinterpret him and think that perhaps he was jealous that Snape was stealing his time with Lucius, but he was startled when Portia gasped. "What's today's date, Gil? D'you happen to know?" 

"It's August. August first." 

Her voice was rather hollow when it came, and she looked into her tea as if seeking an answer. "Oh. I wonder if he knows..." Her head jerked quickly, then, and she glanced to Gil. "Did he say anything when he came home?" 

"He said quite a bit," Gil sighed. There was no turning back now. "So did I. And he showed me his arm." 

"His..." She shut her eyes. "Oh, Gil, I was expecting this." Gil did not respond. "You know," she said quietly, "I thought that perhaps things would be different. And when he invited you for the summer, I thought-" 

"I guess the moral of that is not to think," Gil interrupted bitterly. _Every time I think, I think of you..._

Portia squeezed Gil's hand gently, gesturing towards his cup. "Go on, dear, drink up. It'll make you feel better; never fails, tea." She watched him pointedly until he halfheartedly drank. The liquid was a scalding comfort in his throat. Her eyes, so like Lucius', were disconcertingly trained on him. "Are you going to be a Death Eater, Gil?" 

"They...they killed my parents." 

"I'm not surprised," she said, in a tone that made him jerk his head to look at her. Smiling sadly, she added, "I've known one of the worst for twenty one years; I consider myself somewhat of an expert. But Gil, I know better than anyone - Death Eaters aren't evil. Not necessarily. This probably isn't what you want to hear, or maybe it is, but they're just the same people as you and I. They only answer to something darker." 

"You aren't, er, one of them, then?" he asked carefully. 

Portia chuckled. "No, Gil. I'm not of much importance to Voldemort, anyway. And," there was an unexplainable softness in her eyes, "Julius requested that I not be dragged into the business. It was granted." 

"He asked You-Know-Who to...to not use you, and he agreed?" Gil said skeptically. 

"Yes. He did." 

"But - I thought you said he was - one of the worst-" 

"He is, Gil. He's killed people. He's hurt people. He's no father, nor a husband. But the thing you have to understand is that he's still a person. As are all Death Eaters, you know. Sometimes love has to transcend the barriers we erect." 

Instead of asking just what that implied, he looked away. _Should I stay? Should I really? _"Do you - do you love him, then?" 

"Do I love Lucius? Without a doubt. He's my son and I will love him until he kills me." Seeing Gil's expression, she smiled. "No, not that he necessarily will, but I would love him if he did. Do I love Julius? I don't think those are the words. But I miss him at times, and I love some of the things he says, at times. I suppose that's enough. We don't speak much; he's rarely home, you know. And when he is, we still don't speak. Yet, I suppose he means something to me, in one way or another." 

The shadows flickered in the hall. Gil sipped his tea quietly. "Do you think it matters, then? That...that..." 

"It doesn't matter if I think it matters. It matters if _you_ think it matters. Does it?" 

"I - I'm scared," he admitted. "What if I give up everything and nothing matters? I mean, what if it turns out to mean...nothing?" 

"I wish I could tell you the meaning of life," Portia said softly, rising to take her empty tea mug to the sink. "I wish I could explain to you the world and the ups and downs of love, but I don't think I can. It isn't something you explain. It's something you experience." 

"A...good experience?" 

"An experience," she shrugged. "Humanity is just a word, Gil. But it is most probably _the_ word. I need a bit of Bach before I sleep, if you'll excuse me." She patted his hand and gave him a smile, but too soon she turned away. 

She left him sitting in the darkened kitchen, sipping his tea gone cold and staring into the shadows. The gentle strains of piano music wove into the night, chords and fluttering thirty-second notes all blurring into a bittersweet haze. 

He fell asleep on the table, cheek pillowed on his head, and when he woke it was dawn. 

She was still playing.   


-=-=-=-   


Lucius' bed was unslept in when Gil retrieved the last of his rumpled clothes and crept back out into the lengthening shadows of dawn. He did not see Lucius as he dragged himself across the lawn and into the driveway, wearily holding out his wand hand. 

He almost wanted to see Lucius; he was sure that if he did, he would be convinced to stay. 

But the picture in his mind's eye was not strong enough and, when the purple bus came rumbling by, he climbed on without a second glance behind. 

Soon Malfoy Manor was a watercolor blur that disappeared into the horizon. 

Gone. 

"London, y'say?" The middle aged Stanley Shunpike was bouncing a four year old child on his knee, smiling warmly. There seemed to be no other passengers. Gil nodded. 

"I'm going upstairs to sleep. Wake me when we get there." And without a word he turned and walked away. 

He didn't want to sleep, really; he was haunted enough in his waking hours. He could picture Lucius coming home, possibly drunk, maybe just tired, opening the door, stumbling inside...his hair would be rumpled the way it always was, certain pieces upright and tousled, others flat against his forehead. His eyes would be bleary and he would stare at Portia until she paused her cramping fingers and looked up tiredly...they would call his name, maybe, but already know the truth... 

He tried to cry but the tears did not come. For the first time in his life, they did not come. Gil thought perhaps he had wasted them, poured them forth for petty things like childhood fights and bullies, failed exams and parental disappointment. Now there were none left. 

Or maybe, maybe tears just weren't good enough. Weren't strong enough. 

Outside the sky rumbled as the bus jolted over potholes. Gil could hear the wavering voice of Stanley singing to his infant son, also named Stan. The clouds combined, rolling together in lonely masses. If humanity was but a word, so was love. Did it matter if it was a word or _the_ word? 

No. 

He slipped into a restless sleep, the sort that leaves you as weary as you were before, the sort that gives you haunting dreams that follow you down the street with your shadow. 

Outside, the London sky cried, because he could not.   


_______________________________________________________________________   
Belated A/N: Here ends Part One of The Lockhart Story, otherwise known as the Hogwarts years! The next chapter takes place two years later, after graduation. Um. Yeah. No real notes, other than perhaps Portia had a spell to relieve the cramping in her fingers - hours upon hours of playing, whoo! And I suppose the Knight Bus is a family business, yes? 

And a gigantic thank you ~tosses grateful flowers~ to Sky and Rhi: much, much love! You're the best; as are the rest of you (few) readers out there. 


	6. Absence of Ambrosia

Title: Untouchable Face (Absence of Ambrosia) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: Amalin32@aol.com 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. However, the Purple Crane and all employees save Gil belong to me. The song "I Woulda Loved You Anyway," from which the lyrics are taken, is Trisha Yearwood's. 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What then?   
  
  


c h a p t e r f i v e -- a b s e n c e o f a m b r o s i a 

_"...i woulda loved you anyway,_   
_i'd do it all the same, not a second i would change_   
_not a touch that i would trade_   
_had i known my heart would break_   
_i'd've loved you anyway..."_

What is love? 

It wasn't, Gil mused, anything truly amazing. Or else, if it was, it was especially rare. No fireworks burst forth and no music played; usually, eyes did not meet across a crowded room. It was more of a shadow, an undermining feeling that beat with your heart through your veins until it had reached every inch of your body. A poison. 

The strangest things, he remembered. The blue vein so stark against his pale skin, trailing across his shoulder. Maybe you could see it on everyone, Gil didn't know. But Gil remembered tracing his fingers over such a vein on a certain shoulder, and that, perhaps, was what made it so outstanding. The way he flinched sometimes, eyelids fluttering as he was sleeping, as if he feared a blow. It was so different from his usual calm and commanding demeanor. The way the shadows played over the planes in his face at night, when the moonlight danced between the lines in the curtains: was everyone so beautiful then? Or only Lucius? 

The quirks remained, imprinted on Gil's mind as if cast in stone. He would eat his cereal dry, without milk, and he liked his toast plain. Because, as Lucius claimed, he liked simple things. This was so unexpected and uncharacteristic that it was somehow endearing. 

He could remember the scar just over his ribs: a horrible gash from falling from a tree as a child. Lucius had told the story with a shrug and a faint laugh, though his gaze had flickered at the brief mention of his father carrying him back to the manor. It was silvery and somehow paler than the rest of Lucius' skin; no matter how long the boy spent outdoors, he seemed to retain that porcelain complexion. They would float together on their backs, drifting on the gentle ripples induced by the breeze. Sometimes their knees would bump and a tussle full of splashing and teasing fingers would swiftly follow. Sometimes Lucius would glance over at him as if seeing him for the first time, though he would turn his head when Gil caught him. Sometimes… 

Lucius could do a perfect McGonagall impression. He seemed to delight in making Gil laugh. He acted flippantly towards his mother and seemed, most times, to forget she existed; one day, however, Gil had caught the two in animated conversation about - of all things - the growth of tulips. But there had been genuine feeling, not often seen, in Lucius' eyes. 

Gil had crept away before he could ruin the moment. 

His hair always stuck up the same way after restless nights; messily parted, the left side sticking up slightly more than the right. He had to drench and re-comb it to get it to stay flat. He scoffed at artwork and complained about music; he did, however, commission a miniature portrait of Gil. It had been terribly embarrassing, but Gil had been secretly touched. 

How do you know when you're in love? 

When you can't get out. 

The girl's voice was too cheerful when she said, "Want another?" His groan of assent clashed with the more coherent "no" that sounded behind him. Gil turned. 

"It's Sam," the man said eagerly, proffering a hand. "Co-owner of the Purple Crane, thank you very much. If my opinion's unwelcome, my sincere apologies, but you look far, far too drunk to be asking for more." 

"Uh…" Gil slumped on the table. 

The man whipped out his wand in no time flat, waved it about with a flourish, and declared proudly, "_Ennervate_!" 

Moments later, Sam was grinning eagerly and pumping Gil's hand up and down. "What's that you said? Gil? I'm pleased, I'm pleased. I may not be an expert-" he twirled his wand- "but I can do some useful things. Good to know when you own the Crane." 

"The…Crane?" 

"You've _never_ heard of the _Purple Crane_?" A hush fell over their conversation as Sam gaped. "What kind of clean upbringing did you have, boy? Don't tell me! You still think the world is flat and that the streets are safe, don't you!" He shook his head sadly, grumbling, "Kids these days. Grow up in a closet, why don't you." 

"I-" 

"Sure; excuses, excuses. Now, m'boy, how about a little education?" 

"Wha-" 

"The Purple Crane is a rich whore house," the girl who had served his drink interrupted, leaning on the counter with a gleam in her eyes. "You know, nice little aristocratic club for those of the well to do who have...er...varied tastes." 

Sam blustered back into the conversation, waving away her description with one bejewelled hand. "Now, _now_, young lady! You don't know anything about it! The _Crane_, why, _Gil_, no words can _describe!_" He paused, and then smiled - a rather predatorial smile. "Would you like to see it?" 

-=-=-=- 

The battered sign gave no intimation as to the ornate interior, though nearly every wizard knew about The Purple Crane. For such a seedy establishment, it drew in quite the respectable profit. And it's reputation - among the ill reputed - was amazingly large. 

"So this is the Purple Crane." Gil ignored the way his stomach churned and glanced about, overwhelmed by the glittering walls and persistent clouds of perfume that lingered long after their owners had gone. 

"Indeed." His companion seemed only too willing to expound. "Established in 1925 as a partner of the Purple Heron Pub, we cater to all tastes." Catching Gil's startled look as a woman blew by with her miniature poodle and interpreting it correctly, he chuckled, "Oh, our clientele runs the gamut from young, aristocratic girls to gray-haired old men. Surprised? Everyone appreciates good beauty, you know. And the Purple Crane is one hundred percent Muggle free. People like that. We have, ahem, standards, unlike the Heron." 

"Wh-" 

"What's the difference? _What's the difference_? The Heron is for riffraff from the streets, uncouth ruffians with a couple of coins! We serve only the brightest and the best, my boy, the brightest and the best." To Gil's sudden discomfort, Sam grasped him by the elbow and steered him down the hall. "You're very pretty, you know," he continued, changing directions without pause. "Almost androgynous. Great potential, just great." 

"Um." Gil squirmed uncomfortably. The office was tinted glass and he twisted out of Sam's grasp as soon as they stepped through the door, sliding into a chair gratefully. 

"Now then." Sam clapped his hands, stepping behind the desk and lifting a few papers. "Let's discuss your contract, shall we?" 

"My - what?" Looking startled, Gil focused on the floor. "I don't know where you got the impression that I - there's no reason that I'd want a-" 

"Balderdash! Of course you do! Why, Gil, it's a simply wonderful opportunity. And you must admit you need it. You told me yourself you weren't so good at magic-" 

"I did?" 

"-and the only magic you need here is your mouth." Sam chuckled, winking at his own wit. Gil felt rather ill. "Yes, yes, of course you told me; told me all sorts of things on the way over. Said you didn't know what to do after graduation, that you did! Which is why, indeed, that the Crane is just the place for you." 

"I just don't know if I'm - if I feel ready for this." 

"If you've come this far," Sam said wisely, "you're ready. Deny it all you want, but we're where you belong. Room and board, you know, plus a percentage every month. Can't find a better deal in the country, I promise you." He spoke quickly and Gil could not bring himself to interrupt and tell the man no. "I've just got to ask you a few simple questions. Background check, you know. Parents?" 

He answered without thinking, even without pain. "Roger and Penelope Lockhart." 

The names were quickly written on a piece of thick parchment. Sam's scrawling hand was not far from illegible, but the parchment soon glowed green. "Pureblood testing, see?" he explained, checking a box on his paper with a flourish. "Nothing against Muggles, you know, only we're a very selective establishment, and our clientele can sometimes be particular. We must provide for the majority." 

"I…see." 

"Your education level?" 

"I - went to Hogwarts, if that's what you mean. I just graduated three months ago." Gil frowned. 

The silence in the office was nearly tangible until it was shattered by Sam's excited tone. "You're a Hogwarts graduate? _Here_?" The expression on his face could only be described as glowing. "My, aren't we a gem. Well and good, then!" 

"Er, just curious. Why does it matter? Where you went to school, I mean?" 

"Like I said," said Sam importantly, "we have certain standards of excellence. Not just any common rogue can find his way in here." He sounded as if reading a memorized script. "Though not all are adept at magic, you must be cultured, conversational, a well-rounded person as a whole. Many of our employees are bilingual. We are, you see, Gil, the best in our class. The Heron holds no comparison." 

"All right…" Gil was, if anything, intimidated by this description, but he said nothing more. 

The questions spun off quickly from here. "Age?" 

"Eighteen last month." 

"Any ailments we should know of?" 

"No…" 

"Any magical disabilities, problems, or otherwise? You know: werewolf, vampire, we don't let that sort in." 

"…no…" 

"Any previous experience at similar establishments?" 

"…no…" 

"Any specific talents?" 

Gil's stream of no's stopped here, as his imagination took over. "Um. What?" 

Sam chuckled. "You know; can you sing, dance, juggle twenty pineapples, the like. Sometimes it comes in handy, you'd be surprised, really." 

"Um…no…" 

"Well then!" Sam clapped his hands, cheerily tucking the paper into a nearby file cabinet. "All finished, I believe we are. Here's your key, m'boy - third room on the left. No drugs, illegal or otherwise, no excessive drinking, and no pets. Here's the manual; you'll find all the guidelines in there. Give it a read sometime." 

"Er, thanks?" Gil took both items, fingering the brass key warily. He was employed practically before he could blink. 

"A few more things. Do you prefer being paid in pounds or Galleons?" 

"Galleons?" 

"Very good, very good. And you need a name." 

"What?" 

"Everyone has a name," Sam said impatiently. "No one wants to go as themselves, see? It's really all in good fun. You know - writers take pennames, that sort of thing. Like a nickname. Do you know what I'm saying?" 

Gil nodded. He said the first thing that came to mind, painful as it was. 

"Wonderful! And one more thing…" 

-=-=-=- 

"My." The voice startled Gil from his reverie and he glanced up to see an unfamiliar figure reclining in his doorway, one crimson-tipped finger trailing over her lips thoughtfully. "You really are, aren't you?" 

"Are what?" 

"A Ganymede." She smiled. "When I heard somebody took the name, my curiosity got the better of me. I'm Andromeda, by the way, but call me 'Meda. It's shorter. Nobody _else_ likes mythology." Pale gold curls shimmered as she stepped into the room, arms still crossed. "I'm not intruding, am I? We rarely get newbies here, so everyone's very interested." 

"In_ me_?" He sighed, absently picking at a tear in the blanket. "Can you call me Gil? Please?" 

Meda shook her head. "You really don't get it, do you? This is the Crane, _Ganymede_. Why do you think we take names? Nobody wants to be themselves. In a few days, you won't want to be, either." She sat down beside him on the bed, gray eyes surprisingly melancholy. "Not just for us, either. No one comes here to remember. They come here to forget." 

"Have you, er, been here long?" 

"Only a few months." Catching his frown, she shook her head once more. "You're totally new to this, huh? I was at the Heron before. Compared, this - this is heaven." 

"It was that bad?" 

Meda laughed, throaty and pleasant. "For being hired, you have a rather idealistic view of things. Haven't you met with Sam yet?" 

Gil found himself unable to look at her; the memory of only hours before was brought back in startling clarity. 

She was still chuckling. "You're cute, Ganymede. Better get used to Sam; disgusting as he may be, there's a lot more of his like out there. What did you expect? 'Just a little demonstration of those skills, can't hire without knowing.' Don't let it bother you. Now c'mon, I'll introduce you to the rest, if you want." Taking his arm, she led him from the room. "You'll get used to the Crane, too - isn't bad, really. At least there's no crude kids from the street and such, you know? Ever been to the Heron?" 

"No." He did, however, suddenly recall Crabbe and Goyle joking about it once. 

"Keep it that way. Oi! Diamond!" 

Gil found himself face to face with possibly the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Meda was more than pretty, but this Diamond was just that - a diamond. Glittering, opulent, dark curls and red lips - she was the sort of voluptuous woman that haunted men's dreams. And then she was beaming at him and talking rapidly, her voice betraying her Hispanic lineage. 

Meda looked amused. "She wants to know if you speak Spanish," she translated, correctly interpreting the confusion on Gil's face. "Apparently not. _No. Lo siento, él no habla._" 

Diamond took Gil's hand nevertheless, squeezing it gently. "I am pleased to meet you," she said haltingly, working with her grasp on English. "You are…Ganymede? I am Diamond." 

Ganymede returned the gentle handshake, recovering from his shock at her unexpected demure and almost shy nature. "It's, er, a pleasure to meet you too," he said uncertainly. 

"And this is Marius," Meda continued, gesturing to the flamboyant Frenchman who was lounging in a chair, practically drooling as he gazed at Diamond. Smirking, she added, "He might slobber like a dog, but he doesn't bite. Hard, anyway." Exchanging a teasing glare with Marius, she finished, "And this, this is Arizona." 

"'Lo there," the girl on the couch opposite Marius said, glancing up from her book for a moment before returning to her reading. 

"You just can't put down that book, can you?" Marius snorted, shaking his head. "You've read it a thousand times." 

"Six," Arizona countered, rolling her eyes as she set the book down. From his vantage, Gil saw that it was Macbeth. "It's a good book, okay?" 

"Sure. Just because we're supposed to be 'educated' doesn't mean I indulge every waking moment in dry English verse." 

"Where's everyone else?" Meda asked. 

"Orchid's still out, July's um, talking to Sam, I think Rai's in his room. That's all I know." Arizona grinned at Marius, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. "What, you think I don't pay attention to anything but my books? No one _else_ keeps tabs on where people are, and everyone always wonders." 

Marius, however, had another thought. "We can call you 'Mede!" he suggested to Gil. "Just like little Andromeda here." 

"Mede and Meda, huh?" Arizona, returning to her reading, only smiled into the pages under the cover of her hair. 

"Whatever you say, Marius," Meda laughed. "Now come on - I have to go eat something, anyway, 'fore tonight. Di, you have to change - you know that, right? We're hosting Pierre again; he's bringing the Russian Minister. Showing him a good England time, supposedly. Pierre has no qualms about - eh, anything." 

Diamond blushed. Though Gil was still getting used to how such a beautiful woman could be as politely timid as she was, he found himself liking her. He'd always expected people like those who now surrounded him to be, well, different, but they were normal. More or less. 

"Who's Pierre?" he asked, sitting down next to Arizona as Meda led Diamond out of the room. 

"Just another rich bastard," Marius shrugged. "We don't wonder too much in this job." 

"He's the biggest patron we have," Arizona said, waving away Marius' pitiful explanation. "Extravagantly rich, and he enjoys wasting it on places like - like this. The money he pours in here, it's unbelievable." 

"Money isn't all he p-" 

"Shut up, Marius," Arizona interrupted smoothly, tossing her book at him. He caught it, flipping through it skeptically. Tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear, appearing almost the studious Hogwarts student resigned to homework on one winter afternoon, Arizona smiled at Gil. "Marius is right, he is a bastard, but he feeds and clothes and shelters us with all those Galleons, so why complain?" 

"It's fine for _you_," Marius grumbled. "Nobody pays attention to _you_, what with Di and all." 

"I'm off for a shower," she told Gil, ignoring Marius. "Nice to meet you, Mede." 

She sauntered out of the room. Marius was grinning buoyantly. "It stuck!" he exclaimed, setting Arizona's book on the table. "See that?" 

"Um." Gil wasn't sure he wanted to be call Mede, or Ganymede at all, but it was the first name that had sprung to mind. _People don't come here to remember. They come here to forget._ So why did the name Ganymede, every time it rang in his ears, remind him of… 

"I've been here for three years." Marius ran a hand through his pale hair. "You're new, aren't you? Not from the Heron or anything?" 

"No, I - Sam saw me and thought -" 

"Where'd you go to school?" Frowning, Marius looked puzzled. "I thought Meda - now this is getting confusing - said Hogwarts, but why would you be here? Hogwarts is top notch! Hogwarts graduates become Aurors and workers in the Ministry, not employees at the Crane." 

"Not all of them do." Gil shrugged, forcedly nonchalant. "I didn't exactly graduate at the top of my class, see?" 

Marius grinned. "Well, it doesn't matter. I bet Sam was overjoyed for a Hogwarts graduate on the team. It'll look good." His grin twisted a bit sourly, and he added, "Pity you, though, he'll probably boast to Pierre about you all night. Wait'll you meet the bastard." 

Dryly, "I can't wait." 

Marius stood up, grinning, and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it, don't worry. I'd better go change." He paused at the doorway, still grinning. 

"Welcome to the Crane, Ganymede." 

-=-=-=- 

'Meda and 'Mede, as fondly nicknamed by Marius, were from that time inseparable. They even resembled each other at times. Arizona only laughed at the jokes, suggesting innocently that perhaps they were long lost siblings. Though all in fun, the supposition made Gil uncomfortable; Andromeda only giggled and said it was a shame because then they were doomed to have an incestuous relationship - _It's the way things always turn out_, she proclaimed wisely. 

"You don't belong here," she said once, lazily Charming her nails scarlet as she leaned against the wall. "Mede, you listening? You don't belong here." 

He was busy staring at the enchanting picture painted outside his window; dusky shadows of clouds raced each other across the french vanilla sky. The night had finally ended, the Crane finally closed. "Does anyone?" 

"Well - no, not really. But some of us chose it. Diamond was going to be some asshole's ten-years-junior trophy wife, you know, until she ran away. She begged and sold herself to get to England. Is she happy? I don't know. Is she happier than she would have been? Di'll be the first to tell you _sí, sí_." 

Gil frowned. He thought of Portia, indulging her own eccentricities in her husband's absence. Her shining love for all those around her, those that never loved her back. Was it better never to love at all? Was it better to live a fleeting life of one-night ups and downs, lost in the euphoria of cheap wine and misplaced adoration? 

"Arizona came from America," Meda persisted. "Dad left, her mom lost everything in legalities and unemployment. She was battling cancer. She came here to die where she was born, buried in her own land instead of the 'promised land' she'd once fled to. What was Arizona to do; die, too?" 

Gil had no answer. 

"Marius' father was abusive." Meda was no longer focusing on her nails; her usually dancing eyes were solemn. "'Chid was a starving orphan when Sam found her, years ago. Rai grew up in the Heron; he'll tell you for sure that the Crane's a paradise. Everybody's got a story. The thing is, Mede - we're better off, here." 

"What's yours?" Gil glanced over at her, frowning slightly, curious. "Your story?" 

Meda, for the first time, would not meet his eyes. She gazed staunchly at the opposite wall and its pitted surface. "I don't talk about that." 

"But-" 

"I shouldn't have even told you about the others," she snapped sharply. "They know not to reveal their secrets. Sam's the one who told me. We aren't big into the show-and-tell emotions, all right? Please, don't ask." 

Gil looked down at his hands. "What did you mean when you said I didn't belong here?" he asked, instead of the questions that flooded to his lips. "You said everyone has a story. Well, I'm part of everyone, aren't I?" 

"You're just - not Crane material. No, _listen!_ You're too..." She sighed in frustration. "Okay. Look at it this way. There's the Muggle world, right? And there's the wizarding world. Well, the Crane's like a little world of its own. We're all rather united by our desperation, see, just like the magical world is united by magic. And we've learned to get along here, right? But you - you're like a Muggle stumbling into the wizarding world, you don't quite fit in." 

"Is that a...compliment?" he asked hesitantly. He was rewarded with her laughter. 

"Maybe." She held up a hand before he could speak again. "Here's a hint, all right? Never offer information, I mean, no _volunteering._ Don't ever, _ever_ tell your story. We might be united, but we aren't one loving family. We need walls to keep us apart." 

"Why?" 

"You and your questions," she sighed, shaking her head. "No questions, no answers. You learn in life never to become too close, all right? Remember that. The Crane's like a...a rich refugee camp, and we all work for the aristocracy. Are you a refugee, Ganymede?" 

He glanced out the window; the sky was gradually lightening, its pale yellows and periwinkle blending into a buttery sunrise. Fleeing...from what? Life? "Yeah," he said eventually, "I guess I am." 

-=-=-=- 

He always brushed back his hair with his left hand, even though he was right handed. And he scratched his head when he thought - no one actually did that, but Lucius did. He liked Quidditch only casually and he skipped the bottom step every time he went down the stairs. Without fail. 

Strange, what you can remember. 

"Have you ever been in love?" Gil asked the room in general. 

Marius scoffed. "Love? Sorry, 'Mede, but we don't know that word." He glanced to Andromeda, who looked troubled at the seemingly innocent question. 

"We don't talk about that here," she said softly. 

"You don't talk about anything here!" Gil retorted, anger suddenly flaring. "Don't talk about the job, don't talk about your past, don't talk about love! Why don't you post a list of rules on the sodding wall?" 

"Why don't we?" Marius shot back, eyes hard with indignant rage. "It'd keep people like you from asking stupid questions! There are some things you shouldn't speak of, you know! Things nobody wants to remember!" 

"Marius-" Arizona put a restraining hand on his arm, but he shook her off. 

"What do you know? Why are you here, anyway? 'Meda's right, you don't belong here! You and your bloody _questions_!" 

"Marius, don't." Meda took his other arm, frowning. "Look, Mede. If you're not here to forget, we can't help you. There's no solace from the pain if you keep on remembering." Looking away as she led Marius' tensed figure from the room, she added, "Go ahead. Remember all you like. But do it quietly, and don't drag the rest of us into it." 

Gil watched, perplexed and hurt, as the three exited. Arizona sent him a sympathetic glance as she left. Orchid and Rai swiftly followed, refusing to meet Gil's eyes. 

"What if you can't forget?" he asked quietly of himself, blinking away the steady film of moisture that misted his eyes. There was a hand placed gently on his arm. 

"You aren't ready for here." Diamond smiled hesitantly at him. "You have hope. You have love. These don't exist at the Crane." 

Gil only sighed. "You aren't going to get up and leave?" 

Diamond giggled. "No, _señor_. I was as you are once. I…" She looked down. "Meda said about me?" 

Frowning, Gil nodded hesitantly. He wasn't sure he was supposed to reveal that Meda had told him, but - "All she told me was that you were fleeing an arranged marriage in Spain. And gave all you had to get here." 

"I left _mi amor_ there," she said softly, delicate hand still a comforting weight on Gil's arm. "But I could not stay. Either way, I would lose him." Dark eyes regarded Gil solemnly, bruised sorrows and unshed tears. "I choose freedom, Ganymede." Her tongue still tangled with his name. "We can't choose always the things we most want." 

"But-" 

"You love someone?" she asked gently. "I see it in your eyes." 

"I - yes, I - but we got in an argument." Aware of how petty that sounded, he added lamely, "A big one." 

"Love does not come with guarantee," Diamond told him. "You love, and that makes everything perfect? No. We are human." 

"It wasn't a little mistake," he sighed, and he looked away. "He - he became a Death Eater." 

Diamond's eyes widened. "For You-Know-Who?" 

Gil nodded. "And he kept saying, 'I'm still the same person.' But I tried to convince myself that he was different, he was someone else, someone I couldn't…possibly…" 

"To forget is not simple," she replied. "They pretend so, _sí_, but it is not. We all dream of other lives. We all nurture the smallest hopes to stay alive. It is only the outward view of not caring we put on." Squeezing his hand, she noted, "We put on many costumes here, _de veras_? But we are same underneath. So it is with you. So it is with your love." 

"You mean I should have - I should have stayed?" asked Gil. "It was two years ago, I-" 

"_Dos años_?" she exclaimed quietly. "And still it troubles?" Gil nodded, and Diamond sighed. "No, I think you did right. Inside, you think so _tambien, sí_? But you do not need to forget. To forget holds pain too." 

"Worse than remembering?" 

"Later, you reminded and it comes back. Then is when it hurts, Ganymede. Then is when the true pain is. We do not talk about it, _pero_…" She faltered. "I am happy, yes. More than I was happy. You will be happy enough. Life - love - is not easy. Only - hold your memories. They too hold happiness for you." 

The clouds Lucius pointed out were never what Gil saw; a roaring sphynx, perhaps, or a Muggle plane. He hated the smell of rain but had a certain fondness for splashing with Gil through the puddles, no qualms about the robes he might be spoiling. He never used an umbrella. They kissed in the middle of the field while the storm raged around them, caught on the way back from the lake in the deluge. They- 

The question was not if Gil would always remember the little details, but if those details would disappear without anyone to notice. Lucius was, after all, becoming his father; wasn't he? How far, how far did that go? 

"I don't think I want to forget," he realized, looking up at Diamond's sad smile. "Right?" 

"Do it quietly," she advised, smiling at him. "You all right now, are you?" Gil nodded and she squeezed his hand once more before rising. He could not help noticing the elegant way she still held herself, the posture, the gentle gestures, the slightly tilted chin. She could have been a fine lady, this porcelain doll, and yet she claimed greater happiness…here? 

"Th - thanks, Diamond." 

She flashed him one more fleeting smile as she paused at the door. "You call me Gabriela and I call you Gil, _sí_?" 

Before he could answer, she had gone. 

-=-=-=- 

"Ugh," Meda said tiredly, lifting her hair heavily from her neck. "This is impossible! I should have Marius work with you." 

Gil looked stricken. "No, er. You're doing good. I'll get it-" 

Meda laughed wholeheartedly, fiddling with the record player. "What?" she demanded, grinning. "He's a great dancer, Marius is." The music filled the room once more, and she frowned. "You have to actually _move_, Mede, that's the point! No, your ruddy _hips_...like _this_...no, not like _that!_ I think the goal is to look appealing, not like a puppet made of sticks. Yeah...yeah...right...stop blushing! _Damn_ it, stop blushing!" 

He kept on blushing and stopped moving, looking bashfully apologetic. "I - I can't help it. You don't get it, I hate when people watch me, I-" 

She walked over to him, put her hands on his shoulders, and glared. "Look at me. You work at the Crane. There is _no such thing as shy._" 

Gil kept on blushing. 

"Try it again, okay?" 

"Why are you so determined to teach me how to dance?" he asked. "Er. This kind, I mean." 

"'Cause you're my long lost brother," she teased, and put the record back on. He had to admit, she was good at what she did - even Diamond, who was transformed by the presence of patrons into a much different, less timid woman, could scarcely match up. She even had the whole lick-you-lips move down, the right _look_ in her eyes. "_Yeah..._no, that way...right! Don't think about it and you won't blush, okay? Think about something else." 

He thought about Lucius. Consequently, he stumbled. And blushed. 

"_Mede_..." she began, mock threateningly, when the door was flung open. 

"Ganymede!" Sam exclaimed cheerfully, nudging his way into the room. "_Just_ the boy I was looking for! Er, hello, Andromeda." She discreetly turned the record off. "It's almost evening, Meda, why don't you go get ready? Now, Ganymede. Have I got a job for you." 

"Er..." 

Meda gave him a sympathetic wink and sauntered out the door. He was left with Sam's overly cheerful expression. "There's a man here," he said carefully, "called Asher Canning. D'you know who he is?" 

"He's a...a Ministry member, isn't he?" 

"Assistant to the _Head_ of the Department of International Magical Cooperation!" Sam exclaimed. "Said he was _referred _here. See, there's, eh, this masquerade party tonight, it's all hush hush but extremely important; you know, for the well to do. Our usual customers?" He waggled his eyebrows. 

"And?" Gil prompted. 

"And he needs a...an _escort_," Sam continued carefully. "You're the lucky devil, well, you or Marius." 

"I-" 

"The _Ministry_, boy! Think of the money! Think of the prestige!" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "I heard that it's a _Death Eater_ ball," he added. "Rumors, of course, and how they fly, but..." 

He wasn't exactly sure if he agreed verbally or only nodded, wasn't sure at all how he came to be wearing the too-large costume of some Greek hero - presumably close enough to a Ganymede - and he most certainly was not sure how he came to be - blushing thoroughly all the while - practically jogging to keep up next to the well-on-his-way-to-being-drunk Ministry official as they entered the elaborate hotel that was hosting the party. 

But he was. 

Mr. Canning was a middle aged man with watery eyes and a habit of lurching while he walked - or perhaps that was the wine. He chuckled, patting Gil on the shoulder much as he would a lowly office assistant or a young student, but he seemed quite pleased at Sam's suggestion of the boy. 

He was also dressed impeccably in Muggle clothes, from the shining shoes to the neatly pressed tie. When asked what he was in costume as, he would say the President of the United States. 

Most wizards found this hilarious. 

It was a torrent of people, young and old, male and female, all costumed and laughing and clutching to their expensive drinks. The surroundings were far more glittering and opulent than the forced riches of the Crane, a genuine mingling place of the high upper class. Gil was soon lost in the flood. The whirlwind of people passed him by, shuddering around him in clouds of perfume and expensive silks, stressed accents and pasted smiles. His head spun, sensory overload, champagne euphoria and drowned sorrows mingling in the melancholy chords of the orchestra. 

A gap in the crowds parted for a moment and Gil realized he had lost his "partner," then realized again that it did not much matter. If Asher really wanted to find him, he would. 

He was looking at the impassive bone-white of a skeleton; a medieval woman with flowers in her hair soon stood in his place. Another couple glided past, a nymph of sorts and a towering pirate. The colors and fragrances and swirling people all mingled into a kaleidoscopic haze. He felt faint. 

The music shifted and the crowd did as well, gallivanting in rainbow blurs and faked laughter. There was a pause - or at least it seemed so to Gil - and a familiar face confronted him, unadorned by any mask, stark gray gaze tinted with surprise. 

"_Gil_?" 

He, too, was surprised. But a part of him had expected it, dreaded it, waited for it for so long that he was almost prepared. 

He still felt faint. 

"Lucius."   


____________________________________________________________   
Belated A/N: Wow, long chapter - and the second within 24 hours! But both were already mostly written, so it's not surprising I posted them almost together. After writing this at such a breakneck speed, I'm taking a looong rest...heh. I do tend to write in spurts, though, so I have a lot of little scenes done. I'll be out of town for a few days starting Wednesday, so this is probably the last update for a week or so. For Rhi and Sky and bluchocobo and Quoth the Raven (Discworld? Quoth is _the best character!_ You rock! ^-^), many thanks! 

Angst most _definitely_ upcoming. 


	7. Obliviate

Title: Untouchable Face (Obliviate) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: Amalin32@aol.com 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The song "You Had Time" happens to be my all time favorite Ani DiFranco song and, while I'm not exactly coherent on the connection to this chapter, it fits well enough for me. 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What then?   
  
  


c h a p t e r s i x -- o b l i v i a t e 

_"...how can I go home, with nothing to say_   
_i know you're going to look at me that way_   
_and say what did you do out there_   
_what did you decide_   
_you said you needed time and you had time..."_

  
  


Their eyes met in that crowded room, not a beginning but another kind of end. Lucius smiled faintly: not exactly a heartfelt smile but then, it was a different kind of mask. The masquerade ball swirled on without them. 

"Come on," Lucius said, voice low under the strain of violins. "There's no use talking here." Around them, the orchestra was striking up a lively jazz tune and his voice was drowned in the music. Gil followed him wordlessly through the restless dancers, mind whirling like a hurricane. 

The room they entered was a private one - a library, from the looks of it. Lucius settled into a chair with little hesitation, motioning for Gil to do the same. He did, nervously. "You're, er, familiar with this place?" Gil glanced about him to the shelves filled with dusty tomes. No one seemed to have read them for many years. 

"It used to be a manor in the old days," Lucius said off-handedly, shrugging. "Became a populated area - for wizards - during Voldemort's early years. Father used to bring me here. Meetings, you know." 

"I see." 

Silence descended, blanketing the library in heavy shadows. "So," said Lucius. 

"So." 

Lucius gestured. "Your costume. What is it?" 

Gil glanced down into the folds of his hurried toga, procured from the musty depths of Sam's closet. It was several sizes too big, though Gil figured it couldn't make too much of a difference. Sam had held it to him proudly, seizing some vague image of Ganymede and Greek mythology and pasting the two together with a recollection of fraternity parties. "I'm-" He grasped at a few strands of the tales Meda had told him. "I'm, er, Perseus." 

"Perseus," repeated Lucius. 

"Mm-hmm." 

"Not Ganymede." 

"No." 

They lapsed, once again, into an uncomfortable silence. 

"So, a Death Eater party?" Lucius finally inquired. "Do I detect some hypocrisy there, _Ganymede_, or are you as naive as you appear?" He was waiting, half smirking, and Gil could not help marveling at all the things that were different and yet so much the same. The same shadowed gaze, so familiar, yet so startlingly new - 

"I came with Asher," Gil said, a bit coldly. "And I still hate Death Eaters." 

"But you're...dating one, no?" He was smirking, now. 

"I don't see why it would matter to _you_." 

"Well, let me remind you, _you're_ the one that left." He scowled, absently clenching his paper cup of punch until it crumpled in his fist. "Not me. I didn't end it, Gil. _You did_." 

"I-" He was cut off as Lucius raised a hand. 

"Wait." They sat in awkward silence for a long moment until Gil finally heard the footsteps. Lucius mouthed the words, but Gil caught on. He slid beneath the desk, breath catching. What was this, a conspiracy? He'd thought it to be a simple party, not an actual...meeting, of sorts... 

The door clicked open. There was silence, then a low chuckle. "Didn't expect to see me here, did you, Lucius?" The voice was familiar and Gil struggled to place it. "There are only a few that know, really. And we had a deal. You promised not to tell, yes?" 

"Yes." Lucius' voice was indifferent. 

"In return, I promised to tell you a few things that would, let us say, put you at an advantage?" 

"Yes." 

He shifted, carefully, feeling the wooden floor cold against his legs. The feeling brought back dusty memories he had tried so terribly to shove away and Gil bit his lip, leaning slightly over the desk. The tall figure had his back to Gil but nevertheless struck a chord in his memory that brought it all back. Yes; yes, it made sense. And yet how long had he been unaware? How long had the Crane kept him blissfully oblivious?" 

"Sentimental I may be, but I came to warn you," Snape said, cheerily. He was leaning against the desk and Gil ventured further, though had to stop himself from cringing at the anger in Lucius' eyes. He crouched back beneath the desk, arms wrapped about his knees. "For old times' sake, you know." 

"Because we played together as children, learned our first spells together and suffered through Hogwarts as equals? Because we got this, _this_, together?" Lucius gestured towards his sleeve, lips grimacing. "Clearly one of us got more out of it than the other." 

"Don't talk to me about loyalty," Snape growled. "Don't preach to me about your glorified murders. I knew you, Lucius. You didn't want it. I did. All you wanted was that li-" 

"The Ministry, is it?" Lucius interrupted smoothly. "How many, exactly? Because there are a hell of a lot of us." 

"Hundred and sixty Aurors," Snape said smugly and Gil - from below the desk - could picture him perfectly, that twisted sneer on his lips, arms crossed with the dark folds of his robe hanging loosely around him. Lucius could pull off the condemned angel with ease, but Snape - Snape was always the Grim Reaper. "Gathered them from all corners of the globe. Some of 'em aren't even British. All for this chance." 

"Putting a bit too much trust in you, aren't they?" Lucius shrugged. "I'm sure your precious Dumbledore had a hand in it." 

"Don't bring Dumbledore into this." 

"Why not? You hated him as much as I did at school, Severus. You hated everything about that bloody school, especially the favoritism. What made you go running back?" 

"It's-" 

"No." Lucius, just as quickly, halted him. "I don't want to know. Remember? We never questioned each other." He looked away into the steady throb of the lamp, blinding himself with the light. "I don't want to know how much better you are. The choices you made when I could not. I won't ask you." 

"I'm sorry," Snape said in return, and Gil frowned from his hiding place. He had never known the rigidly uptight Snape to admit any sort of emotion, much less apologize. And to Lucius? He realized that he knew little about the two save for their history together, growing up with similar Death Eater families in Voldemort-ruled shadows. "You know, Lucius, you could-" 

"_Don't_." Sharp as glass, his voice was. "Don't you dare offer me your twisted salvation, Severus. Haven't I told you, time and time again, that I don't want it?" 

"That's right." Snape's voice was smug once again, angrily forced. "All you want to do is lie around washing away past memories in blood, is that right, Lucius? All you want is to waste away your life in that manor with that gorgeous wife of yours, languishing in the past?" 

"You understand nothing." 

"Neither do you." 

There was a momentary truce of silence, one in which Gil scarcely breathed. How had it come to be like this, crouched beneath a desk at a Death Eater party? And Lucius had a wife. He wondered who she was, how they had met, if he knew her. If Lucius loved her. 

"It was nice, Severus. I'll be off, then?" 

"As you wish. And if you even think of confessing, I'll insure that you go down with me. Voldemort will find out all about your spying and l-" 

"_What_ spying?" 

Snape grinned; Gil could hear it in his voice. "Just because there was none doesn't mean I can't confess it. 'Bye, Lucius." 

Moments later, the door clicked shut, and silence blanketed the room once again. Gil scooted out from beneath the desk. "What, exactly, was that?" 

"It's none of your business." 

"I'm _here_," Gil insisted. "I think it is." 

"You disappeared," Lucius replied instead. "After Hogwarts, I mean. No one had heard of you. Everyone just assumed you'd finally splinched in some mishap or some equally unhappy ending, some accident. I thought you were gone for good." 

Gil shrugged, lightly, helplessly. "I was." 

"Where did you go?" 

"It doesn't matter." He looked to the floor, looked away. He didn't want Lucius to know. Even Lucius thinking that he was here with Asher was better than Lucius knowing he was just another whore - wasn't it? "And you? You have a wife, I hear?" 

"Narcissa." Lucius smiled half-heartedly at Gil. "Maybe you remember her. She was in your year, I think." 

Yes, he remembered. Of course. _I thought it was the last name that counted, Patrick?_ He recalled the girl's flippant laughter, her ceaseless chatter, white-gold hair. He made a noncommittal sound. 

"Ganymede!" The shout roared through the halls, Asher's figure striding imperiously past. Gil's head jerked up in the library and Lucius' eyes widened. 

"Who is that?" he asked, voice cool. 

"Er…that's Asher…he's…" 

"You told him your name was Ganymede?" One eyebrow raised ever so slightly, Lucius' composure still in place. 

"No, it's - he -" 

"Uh huh." A sudden chill washed over him, goosebumps rising at the heartless tone. "I think he wants you. Goodbye, Gil." 

"That's not it! I-" 

"Ganymede! Where the hell are you?" 

Gil looked up at Lucius to meet his gaze of broken glass. "Look," he said softly. "Asher's not my-" blushing - "boyfriend. Or anything. He's - well, I work -" 

"I don't care about your little gay soap opera," Lucius snapped, getting to his feet and gliding to the door. "It was nice to see you again." 

"Wait-" 

The door clicked shut, leaving the library in blissful silence. The books stared dolefully back at him. 

"Ganymede!" The door thundered back open. "It was you, damn it! You called the bloody Ministry!" He grasped the boy's collar and dragged him forward. "I'm the Assistant to the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, not to mention _Voldemort's right hand man_, and there are some people I want you to meet."   


-=-=-=- 

  


Asher Canning's office was a labyrinth of papers and paperweights, a maze that only he had the knowledge to sort through. And sometimes even he became lost in the clutter. Sitting in his cracked leather chair, the papers that had previously occupied the seat positioned precariously on his lap, he crossed his arms and glared at Gil. It was late and his office was just about the last place he wanted to be right now. 

"He's just a boy, Asher," the tall man said doubtfully, moustache rustling as he spoke. "We can't just kill him. What if he didn't call the Ministry?" 

"He's a fucking whore," Asher growled, shoving the papers onto the floor before his desk and agitatedly picking up a paperweight and then returning it to the exact same place. "No one will fucking miss him. Don't tell me what to do, Roger." 

"I'm not," the other shrugged. "I was only saying." 

"You were only saying! Saying you want to spare the little bastard who probably called those bloody Aurors I have to work with every bloody day down on all of us! Take my advice and stop 'saying' things, all right?" 

Roger grasped Gil's elbow firmly. "I'm taking him to the Obliviators," he said. "Marvin still works there, doesn't he? He'll get us past the loyal Ministry boys?" 

"Roger," Asher said dangerously, "Memory Charms can be broken." He saw the fear on Gil's face and dismissed it; he turned back to his partner in crime. 

"He'll be in Bedlam," the other argued. "You worry too much. Aurors only got five of us, anyway." 

"Five? _One_ can tell the whole world about-" 

"Come now," Roger replied, far too jovial for the tense mood in the crowded office, "don't be so worried. "Go to sleep, Asher. It's under control. I'll take your little companion here - unless you wanna get your money's worth?" He grinned, eyes sliding suggestively towards the boy in his custody. 

Asher grimaced. "It's home and bed for me. Send Marvin up to meet me tomorrow morning, all right? I'll be at the office after nine." 

"Sounds good." Roger flashed him a smile and steered Gil out of sight, waiting until he heard the door click solidly before speaking. He was nearly running down the hall. "Lucky bugger, you," he sent in Gil's direction. "Asher got his hands on you, you'd be dead in a flash. 'Course, that's probably the happier way out." 

"What do you mean?" Gil glanced behind him, satisfied Asher wasn't following him like some threatening shadow, and then back to his guard. "What's Bedlam? What're you doing to me?" 

Roger chuckled a not entirely pleasant chuckle. "You'll see, m'boy. You'll see." 

"I didn't call the Ministry," Gil insisted. "I swear!" 

"Oh, really? Well and good, but it doesn't make a whit of a difference. 'Less you can tell us who did." 

"Who did?" Gil echoed, stomach sinking. "Who…" The word nipped at the back of his mind, tempting him. _And if you tell…_ It wasn't worth the chance, was it? Because if Snape thought that Lucius had told, he would… 

_Why does it matter?_ Gil's mind insisted. _Why must you care so much about that Death Eater? The past is the past, and if you don't act now you won't _have_ a future…_

But he didn't say it. The words did not seem to be able to find their way to his tongue, losing their way amongst the twisting nerves and veins and pounding blood. He sighed, contemplating the corridors they were passing and his companion. "Is Asher," he said hesitantly, "really You-Know-Who's right hand man?" 

Roger burst into a fit of laughter, vaguely reminiscent of honking geese. "Right hand man?" he wheezed. "Not at all, m'boy. My brother has delusions of grandeur, you see. Don't much like mercy or anything of the sort, afraid to be soft. But no, he's a bit down the chain from where he imagines himself. Hate to burst his bubble." 

"You're brothers?" Gil said. 

"And that, my friend, is a story for another day. Oi! Marvin!" 

Marvin, it turned out, was a slouching, skulking mouse of a man whose pinched eyes surveyed Gil with disapproval. "This the one, Rog?" he asked slowly. Gil shrank back from his glare. 

"Sure is. I'll send Vince over to take him to Bedlam, so get it done quick, will you? Oh, and Asher wants to see you tomorrow morning. Early." 

"Yeah, and you can tell your brother to shove it up his arse," Marvin growled. Roger grinned mischievously and he quickly raised a hand. "No, don't. Damn him, runnin' around playin' God or something like it. Yeah, I'll be there." 

"Good. Go on, boy." 

Gil stumbled forward and the last thing he saw was the door closing before he sank into darkness.   


  


-=-=-=- 

  


Bedlam was more than a word. It was more, even, than a simple idea. It was a place, and possibly one of the circles of Hell. 

Water dripped leisurely down the bars of Lockhart's cell. Rust had already formed, years of the damp and the despair corrupting even the most solid iron. He watched it carefully, focusing on the crystalline drops. Like a teardrop, almost, its bottom a perfectly rounded half-circle. Blurred shapes shifted across its surface, sharp black specks. If he focused hard enough, he fancied he could even see his own eyes staring back at him. Interrogation. _Who are you?_

There was a certain singular beauty to the droplet. It finally gave up the fight and succumbed to gravity. A new droplet took its place, certain that it could resist the seductive pull. Newton was but an observer; as was Lockhart, he supposed. That _was_ his name, wasn't it? He had worked for days to see the fluttering sign posted over his cell, frowning at the looping letters. It could, of course, mean anything. But what else could it be? 

Just as Bedlam is more than a simple word, Justice is nothing but. No matter what games the Ministry plays, their rule is absolute. 

Is Voldemort more than a revolutionary? Does it matter what your cause is, if you triumph? 

And what, exactly, is the difference between heroes and murderers? Who gains the stage and who slides to the background, locked away for knowing too much and being too little, trapped in the bars of a prison long forgotten? 

The droplet fell. A new one replaced it. 

Gravity is an imperious mistress. 

He wasn't exactly sure of how long he had been there. He wasn't sure of much, really. He didn't even know if this hell he existed in was reality or only some endless dream fabricated by his tormented mind. Would he wake up to better? Would he wake up to worse? 

The touch of the iron was real. The bitter taste of the rusted water was real. The food pushed through the bars once or twice a week was real - perhaps not meant to be food, but real enough. And the voices he heard echoing through the corridors sometimes, he prayed they were real. Prayed that he wasn't alone in this mad dream of his, prayed that there was someone else to prove its reality to him. 

He was afraid he was going mad. But he didn't know what he had to lose, so it was easier to succumb. Just like the droplets. He could feel the pull. 

Sometimes he doubted himself, doubted the way his mind ran in endless circles but found nothing but the tiniest fragments of glass. _If my memory was a mirror,_ he thought pointlessly, _I could not see myself._ His ragged hair brushed the back of his neck now and he figured it was some time since Before. That was what he called it, Before: when he had a memory, when he had a life, when he knew who he was. Someone besides a criminal scrabbling to find out his name and lick the rusty water from the sour iron of the cell bars. Someone that was real not only to himself, but other people in the world. 

He wondered sometimes what he had done to be so punished. Perhaps it was a capital offense. Had he killed someone? He wasn't sure if he was capable of killing someone. He wasn't sure of anything, though. Perhaps he had. 

Or perhaps this world was a harsh one and he had only stolen some bread or had said the wrong thing at the wrong time. It happened a lot, probably. Maybe there were others just like him all around his cell, grasping for hope and light in this miserable garden of despair. He didn't know. He didn't want to know. If there were others, that meant that this hell was real. But if there weren't, that meant he was living in the madness of his own mind. He wasn't exactly sure which was worse. 

But he had a long time to ponder it. 

"...Bedlam Institution for th' Mentally Unstable. Actually, we've got a rather extensive 'istory. Pre-Azkaban era, y'see? We don't 'ouse criminals, only th', shall we say, displaced from society?" 

This time the voice was not echoing distantly but rather nearby. He stared at the iron door, tried to make something out in the shadows that clung to his cell. Was it real, then? Or had he finally gone mad, finally let go? 

"Interesting." A new voice! It was dry, non-committal. 

"We are," and the man chuckled, "one of th' Ministry's best kept secrets. They don't use us anymore, but still they got a few unfortunate observers they've sent 'ere. And we still get a few, from the _other_ part of the Ministry." 

"No Dementors?" 

"Eh heh, no. We don't got the _dangerous_ kind, 'ere. But we do keep a few Obliviators on 'and...Ministry still grants us that much." 

"Well." The visitor still sounded disinterested. Lockhart strained his ears, pressed his cheek against the cool iron. "This visit was, of course, between you and I. And - _wait_." Silence. _Drip_. Breathing. _Drip_. Gravity is not amused by defiance. "Does that say Lockhart? _Gilderoy_ Lockhart?" 

Lockhart couldn't help the half-choked whimper that slipped from his lips. They must be right before his cell. Was that his name? Gilderoy? What sort- 

"Why, it is." The guide chuckled nervously. "The _other_ part of the Ministry sent 'im in just a month ago. 'E don't trouble us much, some of 'em set on wailing all hours of th' night. Why? Know 'im?" 

"I did." The voice, contrary to its previous state of boredom, now sounded intensely fierce. "Just by way of curiosity, why's _he_ here?" 

Lockhart held his breath. 

"Somethin' goin' on with them Death Eaters. Just between you an' me, of course. Called th' Ministry at some party or gathering, 'appened to be found by the Death Eater side o' the Ministry first, an' that was the tragedy. Sent 'im here with no memory and a hell of an 'eadache, as usual." 

"That capture last month?" He frowned. "_He_ called the Ministry?" 

"Oh, I dunno. Don't matter if you're innocent or guilty, once you're 'ere." The guide shrugged noisily. "You aren't from th' Ministry, are you? I didn't mean what I said about-" 

"No." A pause. "I was at that party. And he most certainly did not call the Ministry. I was, uh, with him the entire time." 

"Well, nothin' we can do about that, is there?" 

"No. _We_ can't." The next thing Lockhart heard was a dull thump, a jingling, and then he slumped forward as the iron door gave way. A hand tried to catch him and managed to save him from the hard impact of the moldy floor, instead letting him slide to its chilly surface beside the unconscious guide. He looked up to an unfamiliar face. 

"Lockhart?" The shadows parted and his dark eyes scrutinized the boy like a hawk. "Fancy meeting you here. Come on, Dumbledore will want to know about this." 

Lockhart tried valiantly to rise for the benefit of his scowling rescuer, but his knees were too shaky. In the end he was clinging to the other's arm, staggering unsteadily down the slippery corridor. "I - don't know you - do I?" he asked. 

"I guess not. We should stop at St. Mungo's first, get that Memory Charm removed. I'm Severus Snape, by the way." Before Lockhart could open his mouth, he shook his head. "And you're Gilderoy Lockhart. _I_ know." 

"What does that mean?" Lockhart asked feebly. "Who am I?" 

Snape grinned into the darkness of the prison. "You'll see for yourself, Lockhart. You'll see."   


________________________________________________________________   
Belated A/N: Whoo, that was a real struggle to get out. I sincerely apologize for taking so long! I hope, I pray, that the next chapters are out in a more reasonable time frame. For any that this may have confused, please email me or something of the sort to let me know. Rereading, it seemed clear to me, but you never know. For anonymous reviewer, whoever you might be, Rulinian, and once again bluechocobo and Rosie Sinistra, thank you! The next chapter will be soon. I promise. 


	8. Fair Play

Title: Untouchable Face (Fair Play) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: Amalin32@aol.com 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The song "My Sundown" belongs to Jimmy Eat World. 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What then?   


c h a p t e r s e v e n -- f a i r p l a y 

_"...i see it around me, i see it in everything_   
_i could be so much more than this_   
_i said my goodbyes, this is my sundown_   
_i'm gonna be so much more than this..."_

  
  


"Gilderoy Lockhart." Knowing eyes surveyed him, the grizzled man nodding slowly. "I remember you." 

"I don't recall…ever meeting you," Gil said hesitantly. He was startled by the other's sudden bark of laughter. 

"Yeah, well, you don't remember much, do you?" He chuckled. "All right, you got it restored. Well and good; there are other ways to break a Memory Charm, and they aren't so pleasant. But that's all over with, isn't it? Experienced the darker side of Bedlam…and the Ministry?" 

Gil looked away. "Yeah." 

"Go on, sit down. I'm Moody - Alastor Moody. Auror." 

Gil took his hand hesitantly, finding his own firmly crushed. He collapsed in the chair. "Why am I - why am I here? Snape brought me here from St. Mungo's without a word, and I - I don't know." 

Moody pulled up another chair, leaning forward to watch Gil intently. His eyes betrayed nothing, though Gil was sure that his own eyes told volumes. When he spoke his voice was painfully soft, and Gil had to strain to make out the words. "You heard of Voldemort's defeat, Gilderoy? Two weeks ago today." 

"Y-yes." 

"Very well. I understand you were an employee of a certain establishment that often catered to Death Eaters. Just over two weeks ago, the night before Voldemort fell, there was a masquerade party." 

Gil's answer was more hesitant, though he replied with an uncertain yes. 

The questions came more quickly now. "A ploy, I believe, to attract new Death Eaters. You accompanied one Asher Canning, did you not?" 

"I - I did." 

Moody's eyes were intense. "Who did you see there?" 

"I-" He stopped. 

His voice was still low, though dangerously hard. "Members of the Ministry attended that ball, Gilderoy. It is imperative that we know." 

"I can't say." Gil glanced away quickly, eyes brushing the floor. "I - I'm not a Death Eater! I just-" 

Moody's fingers were casually toying with his wand. Gil shifted uncomfortably in the chair and found that he could not move more than a few inches. He twisted and found his way invisibly obstructed. Moody smiled; it was not a pleasant smile. "The Council of Magic Law finds such a chair useful," he said. "For interrogating prisoners. You won't mind, I'm sure; all you have to do is tell me the truth." 

"There was…a man with dark hair and a moustache, he was dressed as the Phantom of the Opera - it's a Muggle play, I-" 

"I know. Vincent Talmidge, safe and sound in Azkaban." 

"Er, Asher was talking to a man he called Ulrich-" 

"Azkaban." 

"Marvin Walden-" 

"Azkaban." 

"I don't know anything else." Gil stared blankly at Moody, hoping, _praying_, to be believed. Moody only smirked. 

"Yes, you do. Go on, Gilderoy; tell me." 

"I can't-" 

"What is it? Are they paying you, did they threaten you if you told? Whatever it is, it's worth it to tell us. I don't care what your allegiances are; I'll get the information from you one way or another. I don't care if you think all Muggles should die or if you hate Death Eaters, I want the bloody names, Gilderoy!" 

"I don't know." 

"You know! I _know_ you know, don't play stupid!" He crossed his arms, taking a deep breath. His fingers were still casually fingering his wand. "You're good at that, I know. Ah, well. I lost most of my morals years ago." The wand raised. "_Crucio_!" 

Pain. If Bedlam was misery, the Cruciatus Curse was pain - a pain so staggeringly elemental that it seeped to every nerve in his body, every sense, every feeling, every minute cell. He saw flashes of red and black, but mostly nothing at all, body jerking with the excruciating pain - no, that was hardly the word. There were no words. It was _feeling_, pure and simple; he had never felt anything so powerful. 

It hurt. 

"By now I'm sure you're acquainted with the Ministry and its better kept secrets," Moody smirked, when the curse faded and he was left only shuddering and stunned but otherwise unmarked. "I suppose I'm one of them. Going to tell me?" 

"Richard Mann," he forced through clenched teeth. "Works in…Department…Magical Catastrophes." 

Moody scribbled this on a scrap of parchment, smiling rather jovially. "Good, Gilderoy. Cooperation isn't that difficult, is it? Come now, any more?" He waited. "No? Very well." 

His world exploded; he was aware of nothing but the moment that screamed on for eternity. "I…don't kn…ow…" 

It seemed to go for hours, though in reality it most likely lasted only minutes. He would offer a name, perhaps, slipping like a prayer through his lips - bloody by his own doing, biting them in his own fear and anguish. Or he would offer nothing but a simple, "I don't know," and in retribution… 

"_Crucio_!" 

Head clearing moments later, reeling with the coppery blood of his lips seeping over his tongue, he looked up wearily. "I don't enjoy this any more than you do," Moody assured him. "Well, perhaps a bit. But it's tiresome, isn't it? If you would tell me…" 

He had been avoiding this all along. In the end he had gotten desperate, offering Crabbe and Goyle, though none of them had attended the masquerade. He had even offered Snape's name, though he was not surprised when Moody related that the other had been acquitted. He had only resisted so long as to prolong this. Anything to avoid…. He _couldn't_… 

_And why not, Gil?_ his mind asked reasonably. _Why can't you? Is he that important? It would save you; Moody might believe you when you say you don't know…it's your last name, your one chance, just say it…_

"You're a stubborn lad, or a stupid one. Of course, it's possible you really don't know, but I seem to think you do. Instincts never proved me wrong before." 

And again the stinging, rushing, devouring _feeling_, searing every nerve ending in his body, freezing his mind into one single receiver of this overwhelming jolt…red and black and white and panic roiling into a kaleidoscope of… 

"L…" 

His fingernails were digging into his palms, sweat slicking his forehead. His eyes were squeezed shut. _Just…say the words…_"L-L-" 

"_Alastor!_" The door scraped urgently and the curse was broken. Moody replaced his wand in his pocket, standing calmly. Gil collapsed in the chair. "Really," Dumbledore continued, shaking his head, "I don't see the rationalization of this. Gilderoy, are you all right?" 

He looked away. "Yes, Professor." 

"You interrupted," Moody seethed. "He was just about to tell me, _weren't you?_" 

"I don't know anyone else, I told you!" The words whispered at the back of his mind. "Please, just don't - don't make me-" 

"This is _my _case, Albus," Moody continued irritably, fists clenched. "Go back to governing your school! I will find these Death Eaters and bring them to justice! Gilderoy is going to help me!" 

"An Unforgivable Curse," the headmaster returned. "Really; you know I don't approve. I'm sure the information could be gotten without such ridiculous measures. No better than-" 

"Don't tell _me_ how to do my job! _You_ remember Grindelwald! And _you_ were the one who-" 

"That was the past, Alastor. I've put it behind me. Now, that's quite enough - Gilderoy, will you come to my office, please? Some hot chocolate, perhaps, and I think a thorough apology would be in order-" 

Gil tried to move. The chair still restricted him. 

"Let him out of the chair, Alastor," Dumbledore said patiently. Growling, Moody did so. 

"This isn't the end of this," Moody scowled. "There's another name; he knows another name! No Death Eater, _no Death Eater_, will walk free, while I'm an Auror!" 

Dumbledore put an arm around Gil and gently led him from the room. Moody's shouts followed them, though Dumbledore seemed not to hear. "You can't walk away from your past," he called, eyes dark with fury. "You know the truth as well as I do! Damn you, don't walk away!" 

The door clicked shut and they were alone in the sudden silence of the hallway. Gil was surprised to recognize it. He glanced up at the impassive face of the headmaster. "P-Professor?" 

"You needn't call me Professor anymore, Gilderoy," he said coolly, as if they were taking an evening stroll through the halls and nothing more. "But yes, you had a question?" 

"Wh-why am I here? I-" 

"Snape was visiting Bedlam on my behalf; personal business, you see. He found you and convinced the jailers to let you go. He brought you here. Alastor Moody immediately arrived here, without my knowledge, to interrogate you. I hurried down as soon as I found out." 

"I-" 

"I understand you helped us invaluably by providing certain names," Dumbledore continued smoothly. "I must thank you for that. You have done all you could. Please don't blame him for what happened; there are situations in all of our lives that are beyond our control, situations that point to the paths we take." 

_Lucius…_

Gil nodded slowly. "Yes. There are." 

"Why don't you get some sleep, Gilderoy? Tomorrow, I'm afraid, you face a trial. With luck, it will take only a short amount of time, but they can get lengthy. Take the guest room by the Slytherin tower; you know where it is, don't you?" 

"I'll find it. Th-thanks, Professor." He turned away into the shadows. He thought there were perhaps footsteps behind him, and hurried away - would Moody haunt him as thoroughly as Patrick and the others, as completely as the memories of others long dead? 

Hogwarts welcomed him back; living, breathing reality swallowing him, arms enveloping him like the prodigal son. And it stung bitterly, as it always had. 

Welcome back, the razor blade shadows whispered gently. And despite the pain, despite the despair, he set his chin resolutely as he stepped into the darkness. 

For the time being, he had kept Lucius safe.   


-=-=-=- 

  


When he awoke there was a cool hand on his forehead and someone was tipping a glass of water to his lips. Gil swallowed painfully, his entire body burning. 

"...such a shame," a familiar voice was saying. "Bloody Ministry doesn't give a damn!" 

Forcing his eyes open, Gil saw Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "I can't say I disagree, I'll give you that, Miranda. Ah, Gilderoy! You're awake? How are you feeling?" 

He tried to speak. He croaked. 

"Have him drink this," Dumbledore ordered, holding up a vial of reddish liquid. "I'll send a student up with breakfast laster on." 

The other by his bedside smiled, taking the potion from him. "Thanks." 

The door swung shut and Gil turned his head, finding that there seemed to be three of her. He let the cool hands part his lips and tip the vial's contents down his throat, though his body rebelled when the potion assailed his senses. Coughing and gagging, he lay back on the pillows. At least some of the fire had faded from his limbs and his vision had cleared. 

He blinked. "Y - it's really you?" 

She took his hand, helping him sit up. "Did that help? Ech, bet it tasted worse than anything." The familiar teasing glint danced in her eyes. "Even Sam." 

Gil smiled faintly. "Yeah. What - what are you doing here?" 

"Paying a visit," she grinned. "Dumbledore owled me and I came as soon as I could." 

His head was reeling once more. "You know Dumbledore?" 

"Everyone knows Dumbledore." 

"I meant, you know Dumbledore personally?" Gil frowned. "That's right, he called you Miranda?" 

"Ah," said she, "but that's a story for another day." 

He caught her hand as she withdrew, rising. "Meda." He bit his lip. "Please. I might not _have_ another day." 

They stared at each other, waiting, until Meda finally sighed. "Okay. You want my story? I suppose it's only fair." She sat back down, eyes distant. "Yes, my name's Miranda. I'm his great-granddaughter. I can see that surprises you, but that's nothing new. Most of this is _his_ story, none of which I have permission to tell. Just, my father doesn't get along well with him; I wasn't even allowed to go to Hogwarts. My dad - well, we don't talk any longer, anyway - doesn't even know I've met Dumbledore. 

"Anyway, though. Don't expect an epic, here. I grew up sheltered and happy, until I got my letter. Dad lives like a Muggle, see; that's why my mum left him. He forbid me from going. When I was eighteen I ran away to my mum, who was working at the Heron. Two months later she died." 

From the impassive look on her face, Gil would not have known that she even cared. The crushing grip on his hand, however, said otherwise. 

"I took her place. Worked there for a year until Sam found me and a couple others and took us to work at the Crane. That was the first time I had to reveal my parentage and when I learned the name Dumbledore meant something. Mum had taken a different name, see? After months of the Crane, I went to find him. I promised to keep his family a secret and he offered to support me." For the first time, she met Gil's eyes. "I declined." 

"_Why?_" 

Miranda shrugged. "I'm not sure. Maybe I've got some of my father's damnable pride in me. Maybe I just didn't want to send his world crashing down around him; no one knows of his family, you realize. Even Sam's sworn to secrecy." 

"I - I won't tell," Gil said shakily. "I swear." 

Miranda squeezed his hand before letting go. "I know. You're awful persistent, but you're trustworthy. He knows that, too." 

"I guess." _Lucius..._

"Look, Gil. Yeah, we're not at the Crane, I'll use names. This trial. Whatever happens, please don't come back. You don't belong there. He's gonna do his best in every way to get you off easy, but even if you're acquitted - well, don't come back to the Crane." 

"Why?" 

"Because it isn't for you. Because you're so much better than that. Because you don't need to be alone and you don't need to follow your stupid pride. You're not running from a fiance in Spain or a past of death and destruction; you haven't grown up a whore. You..." She touched his cheek gently. "You're so much better, Gil. Please, take my word for it. Don't come back." 

Gil glanced past her and out the window. "It's 'cause I took the job with Asher. All of this." 

She nodded silently. "I know, Gil. Dumbledore - well, we keep in touch. It's dangerous, you know, but our correspondence is Charmed. I let him know what I see at a few of these gatherings, and he keeps in touch when it might be dangerous for me." She grinned quickly for a brief moment. "Sometimes he also sends me cookies or things like that." 

"You knew? I mean, that the Ministry was coming to the party and I'd be in trouble?" 

"Of course not!" She sighed. "There's always the possibility, but - Look, I would've taken the job, only Asher has-" 

"Preferences." Gil exchanged a glance with her and they both inexplicably smiled. "I - what day is it?" 

"Tuesday. Don't worry, Dumbledore postponed the trial due to the circumstances. After all you went through." She smoothed his hair back and rose, looking tired. "Don't worry, Gil. Things are going to be all right." 

He could only give her a half-hearted smile as she closed the door. He failed to notice the fact that she also locked it.   


  


-=-=-=- 

  


His head throbbed angrily. The crowd was a blur of mute spectators, a silent collection of faces that stared upon him in accusatory blankness. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he could be swallowed up by the mass apathy of them, thrown into the gaping emptiness of their eyes and drowning there. But he did not dare try and single out a face. He was too afraid of who he might see. 

"Gilderoy Lockhart," his opponent mused. "Can you tell us why you were present at the Death Eater party that night? It has become clear to us that you were not working for the Ministry." 

The faces flickered. One, in particular, but…no, he did not want to know. Looking away and concentrating, he bit his lip and answered quietly, "I worked for a place called the Purple Crane." Yes, he would ignore the mutters. That was all there was - his voice and the stoic face of his interrogator and the stunned blue-gray gaze fixed upon him from the crowd. "The Death Eater and Ministry employee, Asher Canning, needed an escort for the gathering." 

Gil was surprised at how unwavering his voice was. His hands were shaking, but somehow his nervousness did not seem to show. "That's all." 

"Very well, Gilderoy. Were you aware that it was a noted Death Eater gathering when you were-" his mouth twisted - "offered the job?" 

And now it comes, Gil thought, struggling inwardly. He wasn't exactly sure what he was being tried for, but it was a dangerous game to play. "Y-yes." 

"Do you consider yourself a supporter of You-Know-Who?" 

"O-of course not." 

"Yet you went." 

He hated himself for what he said next, hated himself for blushing and for avoiding those unwavering eyes in the crowd. How much longer could he deny that the face was in the crowd? "I worked for the Crane," Gil said firmly, feeling the warmth flood his cheeks. He could practically imagine 'Meda smirking at him. Have you learned at last, Ganymede? "We don't pick and choose." 

"So you're saying that, were you not an employee of such an establishment, you would not have associated with Death Eaters at all." 

The eyes watched him carefully. He could feel the gaze, and the crowd was no longer a pit in which he could drown himself but a throbbing backdrop to that one face. Why? Why must he stare so, the interrogating gaze that left him feeling like a liar? "No. No, I wouldn't." 

There was a slow silence, as if the man wished his point to sink into the audience. Gil wasn't exactly sure of the point _of_ such a point, but nevertheless felt an increase in the yawning hole in his stomach. 

"So, Gilderoy, what exactly did you observe at this party?" 

Slowly, carefully. He could not give anything away. "I - there were a lot of people there. In masks, costumes. There was a band playing, I think - it wasn't like a meeting, it was just some masquerade party that-" 

"Get to the point, Gilderoy." 

"I didn't stay long. I ended up talking with someone I'd gone to Hogwarts with, and then Asher found me and we Apparated away." 

"Care to expound upon that? This someone you knew, who was it?" 

The eyes were watching him patiently. Gil had the feeling that no matter what he did they would not be surprised, only tiredly resigned. "S - his name was Severus Snape." 

The collective gasp in the crowd overwhelmed the speaker's voice for a moment, and he had to clear his throat loudly to continue. "Severus Snape has been cleared by the Ministry," he reported reluctantly. "He is also reported to be the spy that contacted the Ministry about the party. Were you aware of this?" 

"N - not at all." 

"It is known that you have been previously interrogated by Auror Alastor Moody and have reported several Death Eater names. What happened between the time of the party and then?" 

If he told on Snape finding him in Bedlam, he would get Snape and/or Dumbledore in trouble. If he - oh, he had to step lightly, and he wasn't sure which eggshells he was allowed to crush. "I - I don't remember," he said carefully. "I was under a Memory Charm. I recall being in some sort of prison, for how long I'm not sure, not knowing where I was or anything about myself. I don't remember anything else until I woke in a room at Hogwarts, and Moody was there." 

The man appeared unsatisfied, but he glanced at his watch and sighed. "That is all." 

Gil slumped in his chair, trying to ignore the way his head throbbed when he closed his eyes. A certain blue-gray gaze was imprinted on the back of his lids, interrogating him. 

Though he had to repeatedly tell himself not to, he managed to make it out of the courtroom without focusing on one person in the crowd. If he really concentrated, he could even blank out the familiar voice. 

"You did well, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said at his elbow. "We can only hope that tomorrow continues as fortunately." 

The voice had stopped. Gil bit his lip and turned away.   


-=-=-=- 

  


Gil clenched his fists so hard that he could feel his nails digging into the soft palms of his hands. He tried again to concentrate on Snape's face in the witness box but only felt his head slowly drooping once more. It was his own trial; why couldn't he stay _awake_? 

"And you, a known member of the Death Eaters, willingly released Mr. Lockhart from Bedlam?" 

Snape pressed his lips together. "I am no longer a Death Eater, as you well know and have testified. And I released Lockhart because I knew he had valuable information the Ministry would want to obtain." 

_What lies do we weave?_ Gil wondered. The courtroom was filled with them, dancing together to make one large jumble around his future. _Does the truth, really, hurt so much?_

But then, contemplating it, he realized it did. 

"Where were you the night of the masquerade party?" the pacing man continued, voice clipped. 

"I was there, of course." Snape's eyes snapped warningly. "If you must persist in arguing in circles, at least show some recognition when we retouch a topic. You told Gilderoy yesterday that I called the Ministry." 

"Yes, yes.... Tell me, Severus, why did you bring Gilderoy to Hogwarts instead of the Ministry? Why did you bring him right to Dumbledore?" 

"That," Snape said coolly, "has no pertinence in this trial. Nor does anything pertaining to my own trial and my own motives. You are not subjecting me to this flawed legal system yet again. This is Gilderoy's trial." His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, as he added, "I fear you will find it quite useless to question me further. It is a-" 

"Answer the question, Severus." 

His lips pressed together tightly. "I brought him to Dumbledore because I knew Dumbledore could help. And because Dumbledore is the man I work for. A simple answer to a simpler and more useless question." 

Gil stopped listening. In fact, he had been paying only scant attention; his life was already measured and balanced by the meddling hands of others, why should he wake up and start protesting now? It wasn't as if he could do much about it. Instead, he gazed sideways out of the corner of his eye and regarded the figure seated calmly in the first row. His expression was serene and unruffled as he gazed at Snape, though he would occasionally bite his lip as if letting out the only sign of agitation he could. 

_I don't care about your little gay soap opera...___

Did he remember anything? Did he ever try? His back was so rigid and his eyes were so cold that Gil wondered why he had even bothered to come. Entertainment? 

_...it was nice to see you again. _

Was it? Was it really? 

His eyes were the blue of the lake on rainy days, when storms roiled its surface. Gil could see the feathery dusting of hair along his jawline, the shadows flickering around his cheeks. He looked gaunt; he hadn't been eating, perhaps? But his mother made the most divine foods, puttering around the kitchen adding pinches of this and that as if she had grown up a Muggle housewife - 

He tasted like rainbows and smoke, a whisper of dreams and reality. He floated better than Gil did. He always had to separate his food into stark sections, keeping the sauces and his vegetables and the meat and the bread all separated within imaginary confines as if their mixing would be the end of the world. Most certainly undigestable. Gil had often wondered if it had something to do with good blood and bad blood mixing; were there good and bad foods, too? 

But Lucius ate everything his mother - or the house elves - prepared, and he always seemed loath to complain. He always seemed on the verge of laughter, at least during that summer. But he rarely really, truly laughed. It was like he was afraid that opening his mouth and showing mirth would let the world see his weaknesses and exploit them. 

Gil wasn't entirely sure just what the rigid man - so strange, yet so familiar - to his right had as far as weaknesses. But he knew his weakness was - 

No one seemed to notice as he slipped into the effortless sorrow of dreaming.   


-=-=-=-   


There were fewer spectators on the third day than there had been previously; possibly they had tired of the endless questioning and had lost interest in the trial. But then, observers crowded into any trial they could: since the downfall of Voldemort, any trial was an event to be looked forward to. You never knew what Death Eater might be on trial. 

_But I am no Death Eater,_ Gil thought tiredly as he tried to focus on the judge and his imperious words. _I don't kill people. I don't destroy lives. I just..._

"Gilderoy Lockhart," the judge read, with a bored expression permanently fixed upon his face, "you have been found guilty of consorting with Death Eaters and possible aiding the dark forces of You-Know-Who, an offense which is normally punishable by death. However, taking into consideration the circumstances surrounding your offenses, the punishment has been lessened." 

Beside him, Gil could see Dumbledore's usually twinkling blue eyes solemn with expectation. Further down, he could just glimpse Lucius, trying not to look worried. And Meda was there somewhere, gnawing on her lip for his sake. 

He was rather startled that the coldness that squeezed his heart enabled him to feel so distant. 

"You will be taken by the Obliviators immediately," the judge said in a tone that seemed to indicate his disapproval of the whole matter. "All memory of your life will be erased." 

Despite the cold bands restraining his body, his heart seemed to stop. _Again? What will happen to me?_

_Not...not Bedlam, not again...please..._

Beside him, Dumbledore's smile appeared ever so slightly. It made Gil wonder exactly what strings he had pulled. 

"Furthermore," the judge said, his frown deepening, "due to the leniency," more frowning, "of this court, your memory will be modified accordingly. You will begin a new life, free of all ties to any Death Eaters. If any suspicious activity occurs in relation to you, no trial will be held. You will immediately be sentenced to death. Is this understood?" 

It took Gil a long moment to realize he was expected to nod. He did so, rather vigorously. 

"You have no second chances." The judge smiled, a smile that reminded Gil more of a grimace; a wry sort of wrinkling around the mouth that did nothing for his displeased countenance. "Today, Gilderoy Lockhart, is the first day of the rest of your life." 

The crowd murmured. At Gil's side, Dumbledore leaned over. "You're lucky," he related. "It could have been death." 

Two men entered the courtroom from the side, waiting patiently for Dumbledore to finish. Gil was not entirely sure of how lucky he was. "Dumbledore," he said, fingers twisting together. If he concentrated, he guessed he could feel a gaze fixed upon the back of his head. Even that thought could not ease the throbbing fear from his limbs. "I won't - I won't remember _anything?_" 

"You remember how it was in Bedlam," Dumbledore said sympathetically. "The Ministry's Obliviators are well trained in their profession. Don't worry, though, Gilderoy; it will be nothing like Bedlam. I've made arrangements. And now-" 

But Gil had already turned from him, stepped into the aisle, and moved towards the men waiting to escort him from the room. He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling with the emotions that roiled within. They were talking about wiping his memory! They couldn't just do that! They couldn't dissolve a life with a wave of their wands; they couldn't - 

But, when your reflection is only a collection of broken beauty and fragments of harbored regrets, are you grateful for a new beginning? Do you want a new life? Do you want to forget? 

Head bowed, he let them lead him away.   
  


_________________________________________________________________   
Belated A/N: Whee, one more chapter! I hope Gil's trial - and, really, the entire chapter - was possibly believable enough? I did my best. Until next time, thanks to all my reviewers. ~blows kisses~ This one goes out to Rulinian, the biggest Lockhart fan I've met. Oh yes, and the story of Dumbledore hinted at here -- a project I hope to get seriously underway when Untouchable Face finishes. But we'll see. 

For all those who have stuck with me thus far, thank you times a million. Only a bit more to go. 


	9. Making Of A Monster

  
Title: Untouchable Face (Making of a Monster) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: rainpuddledancer@yahoo.com 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The song "Please Remember" is the property of Leann Rimes. 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What then?   


  


c h a p t e r e i g h t -- m a k i n g o f a m o n s t e r 

_"...please remember, please remember_   
_i was there for you and you were there for me_   
_please remember, our time together_   
_the time was yours and mine and we were wild and free_   
_please remember, please remember me..."_

  
  


Larry Kendall's job usually entailed compiling statistics on a Muggle laptop and perfecting the dangerous art of procrastination. He was rarely allowed creativity, much less a good laugh. 

Because of this, he was in heaven. Or at least the closest cloud. 

"Poor bugger," he chuckled, nudging his partner Jim. "Got to feel bad for him, don't you?" The two men watched the monitors in silence, then burst into hearty laughter. 

"Well," Jim conceded, "I wouldn't wanna be in 'is place, I'll give ya that much." 

They both watched the motionless figure through the heavy pane of glass. His heartbeat on the monitor was a steady green pulse; both considered themselves experts on mixing Muggle machines with magic for treatment and so were chosen for the job. Both had been equally excited at the assignment. 

"I heard," Larry whispered, "that he worked at _the Crane._" 

"Go on! You're jokin'!" 

"I'm not! What, you're surprised?" 

Jim shrugged. "I s'pose not. 'Ad a friend whose brother went there, once. Real upper class place, 'e said." 

Both eyed the tattered clothing of their subject with skepticism, blinking at the prone form in the adjoining room. They shrugged. Behind them, the door clicked open. 

"Boys?" The supervisor poked his head in and winked. "_Operation Lockhart_ may now proceed!" 

Larry and Jim shared an excited grin. They were creators with fingers anticipating the clay, forming an Adam of their own. They were doctors with the shared secret of stolen parts, fabricating their own monster. They were painters, writers, musicians; he was their masterpiece. 

They were having a hell of a lot of fun. 

"So where we gonna start?" Jim demanded. "They gave us all these papers, wanted us t'read and study 'em so we could let-" 

"Forget that," Larry said, tossing a carefully rolled parchment over his shoulder. "We know the basics. We're gonna have to teach him everything about the magical world and whatnot, not just his life. So we might as well play it by ear. And besides, who needs these directions?" 

Jim bit his lip as he stared down at carefully scripted lines. "Says here he's a _writer_." 

"What, like a reporter?" Larry frowned. "That's no fun." 

"No, an author," Jim clarified. "Look." They both peered at the page for a lengthy moment, taking in the words. "Mm, on the bestsellin' lists. Real turnaround from 'is last profession, eh?" 

Larry chuckled. "Well, we can't always pick and choose." He grabbed the bound book lying on his desk, a much cleaner and charming vision of Lockhart winking at him from the cover. He blinked at the first page, one eyebrow slowly raising. "What _is_ this trash?" 

"A bestseller, 'pparently." 

"Like I said," said Larry, "you've got to feel bad for him. I mean, he's being manipulated in the worst way. Told he's some silly prat like this, and made to think he's _popular_ in public opinion." 

"Maybe 'e _is_ popular, who knows? I s'pose it could be worse." 

"You think? What, like locked away for the rest of his life in some rotting dungeon?" They both chuckled then. Such stories were reserved for hardened criminals and murderers of millions. That, and Death Eaters recently guilty of collaborating with You-Know-Who. However, to rot in Azkaban was not for this rather silly looking man lying unconscious in the adjoining room. "Well, maybe you're right, but he's still being made to look the fool." 

Jim shrugged. 

"Oh, Jim! He's waking up. We better go in there?" 

"Sure." 

"From this minute on, he's Gilderoy Lockhart, famous author of the wizarding world. Women gush over his picture. No mention of anything else, right?" 

"Right." 

They entered to find a disheveled version of the "famous author," staring at them out of bewildered blue eyes. "Um," he said. "Where am I?"   


  


-=-=-=- 

  


"_I'm_ Lockhart?" the man asked for the third time. 

"Yes_, you're _Gilderoy Lock'art_,_" Jim said for the fourth, exchanging a glance with Larry. "Like I said, I'm Jim 'n that's Larry. We're to 'elp ya." 

"I - I know," he said uncertainly. "Don't I?" 

Larry gestured to take over. "Look, it's simple," he told Lockhart. "You were the unfortunate victim of an erroneous Memory Charm; wrong place at the wrong time, poor fellow. We're here to remind you about your old life. We've already tried the cures and St. Mungo's sent you here because nothing worked." 

Lockhart scratched his head. Before going into the actual "conditioning" they'd given him a haircut, a shave, and several suitable robes for the occasion. He had to, as Jim called it, look the part. "So," he said slowly, "who am I?" 

"Lockhart!" Jim nearly yelled, before Larry placed a hand on his arm. 

"He knows that, Jim. He's not stupid, he's only forgotten. Now. You're a traveling author, see? You go places and see wild beasts, sometimes havin' to defeat or slay them, and then you come back and write about them so's the whole magical world will know." 

"I do?" 

"Oh, yes. Quite the popular one, too, eh, Jim?" 

Jim nodded encouragingly and held up a book, where a dazzling portrait of Lockhart was beaming at them. It read, _Befriending Your Boggart._ "You're doin' a whole series," he said. "Topped th' lists for three weeks straight. Got interviewed in Witch Weekly an' you were the cover story, too." 

Lockhart took the book, eyebrows drawing together. "I wrote this?" 

"Quite so," Larry told him. And Galleons had passed from hand to hand, or so he'd heard, to put this Lockhart fellow on the bestseller lists and in the papers, so much effort just to be convincing. The real story, though, behind Gilderoy Lockhart, remained a stubborn mystery. Rumor alone was circling, and everyone knew how rumors spread and multiplied around the Ministry. "Look, your adoring fans think you broke your leg while battling a manticore. You're here to be 'healed,' see?" 

Lockhart nodded. 

"You've got a book signing in two weeks," said Larry. There was no doubt that the crowds would show; Lockhart's book, written no doubt by some bored Ministry official, _had_ topped the lists, and his portrait on the cover did loads for sales. Besides, if they wouldn't come, they would be bribed. 

Larry and Jim had never really stopped to wonder why so much effort was going into this one man. They did their jobs behind the scenes and then forgot their questions. 

It was part of the job. 

Lockhart was still thumbing through the book, having reached his biography. Both men watched his eyes grow larger and larger. He looked up. "I can do _magic?_" 

  


-=-=-=- 

  


"Garlic, that's the trick," said Larry. They watched as Lockhart furiously scribbled notes on the margins of his book. "And stakes, right, Jim?" 

"Oh yeah, stakes do 'em right in." 

They exchanged a glance. Both had jumped into the subject with enthusiasm, speeding off from fact at alarming rates and turning to legend and folklore and just plain imagination. It didn't much matter if they were telling him fictional information. He took it all in. Larry had chuckled over dinner that if they told him the moon was made of chocolate, he'd probably believe them, and not only go around telling people but preach it in his books. Jim had no doubt that it was true. 

"Stakes," said Lockhart, and underlined his note. "I should, eh, carry stakes, then?" 

"Oh, yeah. Messy job, though. I s'pose you've got to have a special kind, uh, don't ya? Larry? Special stakes?" 

"Very special. Uh, iron. Iron stakes. Wood just don't work." 

_IRON_ was carefully inscribed just before _stakes_, which Lockhart underlined again for good measure. He had no desire to be caught off guard. "Any kind of metal?" he asked tentatively. "Or just-" 

"No, no, no. Iron. Silver, now, that's for werewolves." 

"Werewolves?" Lockhart asked, eyes huge. "Did I ever meet a werewolf?" 

Larry hesitated, but Jim nodded eagerly. "Blimey! You said 'e was about, oh, this wide," he spread his hands, "and as big as from you t'me. Great snarlin' face, drippin' blood an' all. Terrifyin'!" 

"I would have been scared to death," Larry put in. "But you, we heard you were fearless! Just stepped right up-" 

"-took this big silver knife-" 

"-plunged it in his heart!" 

"Nah, 'is liver," Jim corrected. "Then you cut out th' heart." 

Lockhart looked just the slightest bit green. "I - I did?" 

"Oh, yes, you did! Miraculous healing powers, those. Could've sold for a couple thousand, maybe even half a million." 

"_But_," Jim added enthusiastically, "you gave it to th' local village, they were undergoin' some sorta plague." 

"Because of the werewolf." 

"Right. Nasty buggers, them, spreadin' disease. So you healed 'em all." 

"They erected a statue of you," Larry grinned, winking at Lockhart. "Lockhart the Werewolf Slayer." 

"Oh," said Lockhart, and he looked rather ill indeed.   


-=-=-=- 

  


"Oh," said Larry, pointing at the monitors, "he's all shook up, look! Heart's racing. Wonder what the whole fuss is." 

"I'm ready when you are," Jim said, wand held out. 

"All right." Larry leaned forward, took the microphone in his hand, and said slowly, "All right, Lockhart. We're right here in case anything goes wrong. Why don't we start out with something simple, like lighting your wand?" 

Something made Lockhart's heartbeat skip; it was clearly buried in the memories his mind would not allow through. His expression was still complacent. "_Lumos_," he commanded, and the tip of his wand blazed. Half a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, and Larry and Jim exchanged a pleased glance. 

"Good, good. Now, why don't we do something harder. Remember the spells we taught you?" There were several objects arrayed before him on a table. "Lift that." 

It was an apple, round and probably magical in its perfection. Lockhart squinted at it, and raised his wand. 

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," Jim whispered at the same time as Lockhart, his voice masked by Lockhart's voice. The apple shot into the air. Even Lockhart seemed stunned at its sudden flight. 

"D-did _I_ do that?" 

"You sure did," Larry beamed. "Go on, we all knew you were famed for your skill." 

"Right!" chimed in Jim. "You stunned a dragon with a simple spell. Everyone else panicking, and you as cool as can be, jus' walking up like that and stupefyin' the huge beast. 'Twas enough to content th' Prophet for a week." 

"I'm not so sure I-" Lockhart began, though he was still eying the apple with a pleased expression. 

"You're Gilderoy Lockhart," said Larry, firmly. "You can do _anything_." 

Lockhart shrugged uncomfortably. 

"Now, I want you to summon that book from across the room. What's the spell?" 

"Accia?" 

"Accio," Larry corrected. He raised his wand, and they both summoned the book, which zoomed across the room and hit Lockhart solidly in the chest. He flailed back into a chair, wand flying, eyes wide. "Right," Larry muttered. "Er, a little less power, but that's good." 

"I'm Gilderoy Lockhart," Lockhart echoed under his breath, as if to convince himself. "I can do _anything_."   


-=-=-=-   


Lockhart gazed at himself in the mirror. Shadows darkened the lines of his jaw, leapt about the hollows of his face. After day and day rolled on after each other, until those endless days became a month, he thought he was more or less reconciled with his former self. 

"Gilderoy," he said slowly, reaching towards his reflection. "Gilderoy Lockhart." 

The book signing that morning had been a wild success. Women had been fighting over the last copy; he was asked to autograph body parts, sleeves of robes, covers of other books that had nothing to do with him. He truly didn't understand his own popularity, but when he raised the question with Larry, he received only an incredulous look as if he had said something obscenely out of line. 

There was but one point of confusion from the signing: a young, blonde woman who had pressed a copy of a book called _Macbeth_ at him. "What's your name, please?" he had asked politely, and she had hurriedly said, "Oh! Med - Miranda. But this isn't for me, it's for a friend. Her name is Arizona." 

So he had signed it, as she turned to her white-bearded companion and wiped her eyes. He had heard her choked whisper of, "_This_ is the alternative you bargained for him? This farce?" He had heard the much older man say calmly, "Is it better than the Crane, my dear?" 

"Do I know you?" Lockhart had asked, handing back the worn book. The old man had smiled. 

"Well, we are devoted fans of yours." And he had whisked the young woman away into the crowd, the crowd that eagerly pressed around Lockhart and obscured them from sight. 

There was a yawn from the bed beside him, and Larry poked his head from the covers. "Lockhart? What are you up to?" 

"Couldn't sleep," he said softly. His reflection stared back at him, weary-eyed and alone in the shadows. 

"Well, go t'bed. You got portraits to sit for tomorrow, and then the board examination to assure everyone you know yourself. C'mon, it's a busy week and who knows what you'll be up to after you're out of our care." Another yawn rippled his jaw. He passed a hand over his eyes, squinting into the faint moonlight that defined the shadows. 

"You're right." Lockhart looked at himself once more, blinking at the man he saw staring back at him. It was only natural, he supposed, for nothing to feel familiar. That was what everyone had told him. "Larry, I - sometimes, I don't feel right, I-" 

Larry laughed. "Now you're just being stupid. You had a complete loss of memory; how're you supposed to feel right? It takes time." 

"Time," Lockhart repeated, convincing himself. 

"Oh, sure. It's troublesome for you, too, being so public all the time. You always loved fame, though." 

"Did I?" Lockhart frowned. His reflection frowned back. It seemed wrong that such things happened, that entire lives were forgotten with a wave of a stick. Sometimes he doubted the magic, even feared it; there was quite a bit of power in that little wand. Power that he, supposedly, held a large amount of. It was like fame, probably - some people had what they wanted and were content, others craved more. Did he crave more? He wasn't sure. Now he just craved knowing who he was, without a doubt, without a question. 

Was that, then, ambition? To be yourself? 

"Go to sleep," Larry grumbled, though he was more awake by this point. "Your signing was a huge success. We didn't even expect so many people." 

"I never - they all looked at me like I should know them, like they knew me-" 

Larry snorted. "You're famous. Of course they know you." At Lockhart's bewildered look, face shining faintly in the shadows, his voice softened. "Now, like I said, it takes time. Wasn't it great, bein' up there with everybody knowing you, though? Knowing your name and your face and wanting a bit of your fame? Wishing they could be as famous as you? Wasn't it wonderful, having something they all craved?" 

He looked at himself in the mirror, his reflection, the face the world now knew. "Yes," he said, softly. 

"Good. Now, go to sleep." 

Lockhart returned to his own cold bed, and even in his dreams the people that haunted him were strangers.   


-=-=-=-   


  


The sky was the most brilliant color of blue, spotless and rich. It was the shade just between blue meeting purple, a blueberry stain strained into iridescent azure. There were no clouds to dust it lighter, no obscuring haze, and only the too-bright orb of the sun interrupted the bowl of color. 

"Here I am," said Lockhart, almost to himself. He glanced back, but Jim - who had patted him heartily on the back and shooed him out the door - was already out of sight. And here he was, back in the world, the world that bowed down and warmed his back with sun, welcoming him into its sunny depths. 

"Excuse me," a voice said by his elbow, and he turned around. He did not recognize the man, the barely taller man with tousled blonde hair and an imperious set to his chin, impeccable robes tumbling in shadows around his form. "Ah, Gilderoy Lockhart?" Lockhart felt the impossible chill that he should know this man, probably had, but after weeks of the feeling with everyone he met he'd learned to ignore it. 

"Do I know you?" he asked politely, fanning himself in the shimmering heat. A chuckle. "Of course, you probably know me." 

"I -" The blonde man paused, considering Lockhart. "No, we've never officially met, I don't believe. I've been, ah - well, your book has many fans. I heard about your release from this, er, hospital-" 

"Broken leg, you know," Lockhart interrupted. "Got in a terrible row with a manticore a bit ago." 

"Ah. Well, I, er. Brought you these." And he held out a bag, quickly. "I'm Lucius, by the way. My mother made them, she, er, wanted you to have them." 

"Would you like an autograph?" Lockhart called, perplexed as he watched the other man hurry away without another word. "If you have a book, I'll sign it…" 

But he was gone. Still rather confounded by the man's brief visit and sudden departure, Lockhart peered at the cookies. They seemed all right. Familiar, perhaps, in a way - the sort of cookies you expect to find waiting beside a cup of tea on a warm afternoon, the kind that always reminded you of home. 

Only, he didn't remember home; he only remembered names and statistics that were given to him. Shrugging, Lockhart took one. 

They tasted bittersweet, sugar and spice, the sun-kissed rays of summer and a farewell last kiss. The crystal sweetness of silvery lake water, the nostalgic fragrance of wildflowers swaying gently in the wistful, whispering breeze. The taste lingered on his tongue as he chewed thoughtfully. 

Almost… 

Gilderoy Lockhart shook his head. That was fans for you, bringing you cookies, adoring you to such an extent. Such was fame. 

"Hey!" The man ran up to him, clutching a scrap of parchment and a quill. He too looked familiar, having worked in the same building Lockhart was living in for a month, but Lockhart could not place him. "Aren't you that man? Gilderoy Lockhart?" 

Lockhart beamed. "That I am! What can I do for you?" 

The man thrust the quill into his hand. "Just an autograph, please," he said breathlessly. "Th' name's John. Thanks ever so much!" He watched eagerly as Lockhart scribbled his name and an inspiring message, inwardly beaming when he realized what good news he'd have to report back to Jim and Larry. Lockhart, as expected, was now completely immersed in the life bestowed upon him of intricately woven lies. "Wow," he said, letting awe tinge his voice. "Thanks!" 

Lockhart watched him dash back into the building, glancing rather blankly into the wistfully bright sky. And he smiled and ran his hand through his - suddenly robustly curly - hair, acting the celebrity because that was what he did best.   


_________________________________________________________   
Belated A/N: Thank you _so_ much for waiting me out. I've been terrible with the wait for this chapter. All of your reviews mean an incredible much. ~throws flowers~ And, at long last, I am done. Following this is the epilogue, and Untouchable Face is a completed project (unless I decide to rewrite some of the parts). Thank you, everyone. Here's to Gil. ~raises glass~ 


	10. Elaborate Lives

Title: Untouchable Face (Elaborate Lives) 

Author: Amalin 

Contact: rainpuddledancer@yahoo.com 

Rating: R 

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on characters and settings in the books of J. K. Rowling. No profit is being made. The song "Elaborate Lives" belongs to Tim Rice and Elton John from the musical _Aida_. 

Summary: When your memory is something that other people play with and your mind their discarded playground, what else can you believe in besides your own reflection? When no recollection is a pleasant one, is it better just to forget? How many new lives are too many, before the past catches up to you? And what do you do when the face in the mirror is no stranger than the dreams you once cherished? What then?   
  
  


e p i l o g u e -- e l a b o r a t e l i v e s 

_ "…we all lead such elaborate lives…_   
_ …wild ambitions in our sights…_   
_ …how an affair of the heart survives…_   
_ …days apart and hurried nights…_

_ …we all lead such elaborate lives…_   
_ …we don't know whose words are true…_   
_ …strangers, lovers, husbands, wives…_   
_ …hard to know who's loving who…"_   


It is afternoon and the sun is high, scattering its benevolent rays across the sky from its golden chariot. It flirts teasingly with the blowing curtains, its gentle rays flickering between gaps in the white linen. Outside the land is summer green, just beginning to bloom. 

Despite the time, it is breakfast - a silent ritual, complete with china dishes and silver spoons, rustled newspapers and occasional sighs. Today, Narcissa is still sleeping - recovering from a friend's late night gala, yet again, most likely - and father and son eat in even more sullen silence. 

Lucius' cereal tastes dry without milk, and he wonders if Draco's toast is heaped with jelly to be different from his father or if the boy actually likes it. 

Either way, it doesn't matter, does it? 

"Any news?" 

Draco peers over his copy of the Daily Prophet in annoyed surprise. He might as well eat in his room for all the conversation that happens around the household, but since his father rarely speaks at the table, it makes no difference. "No. That rapist was caught in Belgium. And Hogwarts needs a new professor. But you knew that." 

"Yes, nothing new there." 

"In Quidditch news, the-" 

Lucius frowns. "I don't care about Quidditch news. Viktor Krum this, the Chudley Cannons that…is there never any real news?" 

Draco frowns his own reply: a contest of sorts. Lucius has played longer. "You ought to care," he says bitterly. "It's what normal wizards do care about." 

"Well, I don't. And the Malfoys, Draco, are not normal wizards." And he wonders silently, yet again, why his son likes Quidditch so. Because his father never showed much of an interest? Why is he so insistent upon being the opposite; is Lucius the failure and his son to be the success? Or, no matter how he tries, is he still a Malfoy? 

Draco gets up to leave. At that moment, a bit of text catches Lucius' eye. He reaches for the paper. 

"I'm the one that pays for it," Draco grumbles, though he reluctantly relinquishes the newspaper to his father. "Whatever. Keep it." 

Moments later, he is locked in his room. Lucius is oblivious, intent on the article. A whisper sounds softly on the summer's breeze, frisking darkly beneath the birdsong and the lazy hum of insects. 

"I loved…you…" 

"Damn it," Lucius continues, a shade louder. "Damn it, damn it, _damn_!" Without bothering to alert his wife and son to his whereabouts, he pulls out his wand and disappears.   


  


-=-=-=- 

  


It was late afternoon when the man arrived, though hours have passed since then. Hours of contemplation, of senseless confession, of silence. 

The wind shivers across his path, tugging with it a few prematurely fallen leaves. 

A newspaper article flutters by, having slipped carelessly from inattentive fingers. One cannot simultaneously clutch a newspaper clipping and sob into one's hands, which Lucius Malfoy now knows. 

In any case, the picture is not the picture of a lonely eleven-year-old boy whose parents have been taken by a Dark Lord's curse, nor is it the beaming countenance of a celebrity's fake pose. It is the gory example of just what can happen when you try to Apparate and fail - splinching at its most unpleasant. Not that the Daily Prophet shies from unpleasantries. 

_The world might mourn for this charming man_, the type reads, its black-on-gray finality chilling. _A well known author, professor, this famous wizard went out in a most unsurprising way. Life's ironies did not pass him by_. 

It spirals onward, our newspaper scrap, eventually but another piece of trash in the gutter. Sunken deep in the melancholy process of remembering, the tall man wipes too late tears from his cheeks. 

Twilight descends, breathing dusk into the pale sky. The stars slowly come out or, rather, appear, as they have always been there. The moon is but a sliver in the sky, a porcelain slit like a wry half-smile. Sideways. 

Squinting into the darkening canvas of indigo, Lucius waits for the night to deepen. Eventually it grasps the horizon and cloaks the world in shadow, each tiny diamond sparkling in the sky. Lucius leans against the headstone, feeling the warmth of the sunlight seep out of the rock. He tries to push some of his own body warmth into the stone. 

It doesn't work. 

"The stars are out," he says softly, looking past the shadowed granite and into the distant sky. "We used to watch the stars, do you remember? And I would point them out to you…" 

It is dark, and the stars provide little illumination, so any tears that the man might shed would be unseen. Of course, none walk such a graveyard tonight, and the cover of night is a cloak of darkness to shield him. He huddles beside the grave marker. Perhaps he cries; the night is dark, and we cannot see his tears. 

"Look," he whispers into the lonely night, "there's Lyra. And over there, Ursa Major. And…" He trails off. "Is that Aquarius?" Aquarius appears in late summer and fall, as he well knows. In fact, most of the stars are off for the early summer season. Lucius frowns, scrutinizing the sky and its own unshed tears. "You know," his voice wavers quietly. "You know, Gil, I miss you sometimes." 

The wind whispers, a melancholy hush, through the trees. Otherwise all is silent and cool, a summer night swinging past. 

"I think about it," Lucius continues softly, "sometimes, in the middle of the night, and everything is quiet. And I can imagine that maybe we're back at Hogwarts, or at the Manor that summer. I think that maybe you're here, you're right beside me." His voice breaks. "And there are no mistakes, Gil, there are no mistakes, only lessons. I learned my lesson. I - I think that maybe, this time around, I would change things. Could I?" 

The only answer is a lonesome owl, winging its way across the cemetery on its search for a meal. The stars blur in tiny orbs that pulse with the fluttering of his eyelids. Teardrop magnifying glasses. With which to see the stars. 

"Did you know?" Lucius traces a wandering finger down the chilled granite marker, finger following the letters. _G…I…L…_ "When I saw you at the masquerade, I would have thrown away every pretense in my life just to spend one summer day back then: spend it, over and over, forever, again. That would be perfection, I think." 

A cloud shadows what sliver of moon there is; the stars are chiming gently in a melancholy song. 

"And Ganymede," he chokes out, voice still softly lowered under the cover of the velvet sky, "the cupbearer, was given immortality. He was put in the - in the stars - so that he would never d-die…" 

Aquarius looms, bright and beautiful, its stars pulsing with his tears. 

"Of all his lovers, I think Zeus treasured his Ganymede the most. Of his wife, of his mistresses: it wasn't just the beauty, the lust, it was more, don't you think? When mortals believe - believe in gods, gods have to believe in - in love..." 

The cemetery shivers, the wind brushing through the leaves and fluttering the lone man's dark robes. A nightingale cries dolefully in the distance. Flower petals swirl, pale and ghostly, through the shadows: dissected roses. _He loves me. He loves me not. How ridiculous it all was, really…_ The night is silently mournful, its song an unheard melody of unshed tears and long forgotten strains of Bach woven into the night; the song of a wife whose eccentricities are forgotten along with her presence, the song of a whore whose life is better than she ever dreamt of it being, the song of a lover… 

_Maybe you're right about love not existing. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe there are just these things, these… moments…_

In the midnight sky, the stars shine on.   
  


___________________________________________________________________   
Belated A/N: Thanks to all who read my measly Lockhart fic - I hope, pray, beg of you, that you love him as well as I do, now! For bearing with me, tolerating and possibly even loving the angst, reviewing and reading and supporting me: thank you, thank you! ~kisses~ 

Oh, and the mythology goes like this: Ganymede was the son of Tros, king of Phrygia. Zeus saw him in the fields one day and was taken with his great beauty, so that Zeus took the form of an eagle and abducted Ganymede to Mount Olympus to be his cupbearer and lover. 

It is said that Ganymede gained immortality as the constellation Aquarius. 


End file.
